tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3638526733734895712024-03-05T03:33:03.517-08:00Who knew, when I said "I Do..."Who knew, more than 20 years after my wedding day, that I would find myself as not only a farmer's wife, but also a farmer in my own right? And that I would love working on the farm, side by side with my husband, day after day. Who knew that I would enthusiastically shed the career-woman skin, relinquish my illusion of control, and find joy in the simple, day-to-day pleasures of our land, animals, and farm life?Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-63240212877571188722016-01-06T11:18:00.000-08:002016-01-06T11:18:46.881-08:00Travelogue: New Zealand 2015<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I love my home, my farm, and my life on the farm. I appreciate
and am grateful for the small things and the large, but still, I was looking
forward to some time away from the farm. Leave home, leave the familiar, travel
far afield. Only then can the routine experience -- caring for my animals,
walking in the woods, preparing meals, even saying hello to strangers -- become
new all over again. Mission accomplished!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The basic data on our trip to New Zealand<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<ul>
<li><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; text-indent: 0in;">A full month
end-to-end, with 4 weeks on the ground in NZ</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; text-indent: 0in;">10 days on
the North Island, including Wellington, Tongariro National Park, and Napier/
Hawke's Bay before ferrying across Cook's Strait to Picton</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; text-indent: 0in;">18 days on
the South Island, including Mapua/Abel Tasman, Dunedin, Cromwell/Central Otago,
Queenstown, the Milford Track in Fiordlands National Park, Wanaka, and
Aoraki/Mt. Cook</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; text-indent: 0in;">7 stays over
19 nights in either a private room in an Airbnb host's home or in a
self-contained cottage. The interaction with our hosts, and the chance to stay
in real Kiwi homes made a huge impact on our overall experience. </span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; text-indent: 0in;">Could we
actually have walked/hiked more than 100 miles in NZ? I think we did!</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; text-indent: 0in;">My 20 minute NZ
movie/musical slideshow: </span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #3b5998; font-family: Helvetica; text-decoration: none;"><a href="https://youtu.be/sUcBBimzXRM">https://youtu.be/sUcBBimzXRM</a></span></span><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;"> </span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Once we decided that we were going to New Zealand, the first --
actually the only -- thing we booked were reservations for the 5-day experience
of hiking the Milford Track, called one of the finest walks in the world. It is
a 33.5 mile track set in Fiordlands National Park, amid the rain-forested river
valleys in the Southern Alps. We knew that we would be carrying backpacks,
albeit without having to carry food or shelter because we were hiking from
lodge to well-equipped lodge. We knew there were 3 long days of walking on
mostly flat-to-moderate terrain (plus one long ascent and descent), and we knew
that we were likely to have rain. This gave us something to train for, and for
6 months, we hiked every Monday morning, working up to a distance of 12 miles
in mostly hilly parks. The training hikes gave us some goals and we diligently geared
up for the "tramp" that we expected to be a NZ highlight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">On December 1, thirty of us assembled in
Queenstown, NZ, for a 3-hour bus ride to Lake Te Anau. Then we boarded a boat
to go across the lake to the start of the Milford Track.</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">A one mile
walk took us to our first lodge, the Glade House. The group split up into
smaller ones to go on a 90 minute "orientation" and nature hike,
during which it started raining. And it kept raining, all night and into the
next morning. The Clinton River, just outside of our lodge, had risen nearly to
the top of its banks, and waterfalls had sprung up everywhere overnight. And so
started Day 2.</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">Our guides
were on the radio with park rangers and weather services, and we delayed
departure for an hour to let the water level drop. We finally got the
"GO" signal, but were told that we would be walking as a single
group, with the guides interspersed to check for safe passage. In the pouring
rain, we set out. One of the funniest scenes of the day was the opening of the
umbrellas by three of our Japanese walkers.</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">At first we
were stepping around and then in small puddles. We progressed to walking
through shoe-top level water. But the still-rising river was quickly overtaking
the track. We were soon wading through knee deep and then thigh deep streams.
It became clear, just over a mile in, that we couldn't proceed, so we turned
around and headed back to the Glade House, where the staff had scones and hot
drinks ready for us.</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">As there
would be a new group checking in that day, we couldn't stay, but we also
couldn't safely walk. The news came that we would be carried by helicopter to
our next lodge. As logistical maneuvers were happening behind the scenes, we
spent time in the warm dry lodge, getting to know our fellow walkers (6 of us Americans,
6 from NZ, 4 from Australia, 6 from Japan, 4 from Spain, and 4 from Singapore)
as our wet gear hung in the amazing "drying room" at the lodge. By
noon, the sun came out, and while we were disappointed to miss the day's 10
mile walk, we were getting psyched for the "free" chopper ride!</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">It was a 6-person helicopter, so it made 6 runs between the two
lodges to ferry us to the Pompolona Lodge. John and I got seats up front with
the pilot, and John captured the scene from on high as best he could. Photos
can't quite show how amazing the scenery was, but here are a couple of the
shots anyway!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">The Pompolona
Lodge was nestled in the jungle at the base of a rock wall, and waterfalls were
running like mad. Everyone was eager to get back on track the next morning for
the 9+ mile hike up the MacKinnon Pass at 3400' and then back down a rocky
descent to Quinton Lodge. This was one of the most beautiful hikes I've ever
been on, with lush ferns and wildflowers, beautiful rock, countless waterfalls,
many native birds, and jaw-dropping scenery, turn after turn.</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">At the top, a
memorial to Quinton MacKinnon.</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">The descent was equally beautiful but mentally tough because the
extremely rocky path made for very challenging footing and required a lot of
concentration. We were rewarded with many (more) waterfalls, reached the Lodge
early, and then took an optional 90 minute loop hike up to Sutherland Falls,
the highest waterfall in NZ.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">The final day on track was a lightly-rolling 10
mile walk through the Arthur Valley all the way to the Milford Sound at the
aptly-named Sandfly point. It was a beautiful walk with some bursts of rain,
some sun, and plenty of lush green flora and gushing waterfalls. At the end, a
small boat brought us across the water to our final night's lodging at Mitre
Peak. In the morning, we boarded a large boat for a scenic cruise of the Milford
Sound. We were told that a sunny, clear morning is relatively rare in these
parts. We lucked out!</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">In addition to the spectacular Milford Track, we completed
several other incredible hikes. Most notable was the epic 12 mile Tongariro
Alpine Crossing on the North Island during our first week. This hike is
weather-dependent, and it had been closed for the two prior days with high
winds and major thunderstorms. On our date, there were hundreds of independent
walkers strung along the track. We caught a shuttle bus from our hotel inside
the national park to the start, and we were picked up 6 hours later at the
other end. We made some new friends along the way, and hiked most of it with a
young Belgian couple, Sandie and Mario. We connected quickly and easily with
them and I have a strong hunch we will see each other again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">We also hiked the Rob Roy Glacier Track on Mt. Aspiring, just
after Milford, where we were treated to both spectacular scenery, sparse crowd,
and a thrilling avalanche, which John captured on video. The following day we
completed the Hooker Valley Track in Aoraki Mount Cook National Park. Both of
these hikes featured glaciers, but in Aoraki, we were able to plainly see the
fast-shrinking glacier. Beautiful and heart-breaking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">Our physical activities did venture beyond
the fabulous hiking. We spent two days bicycling, and were very impressed with
the well-marked and maintained bicycle trails. Many were completely off-road,
some ventured onto roads for portions of the ride. I understand that the last
decade has seen a large expansion of bicycle trails and tourism, and we were
glad to take advantage. All NZ cyclists must wear helmets.</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Lest you think that we did not have days of indulgence in wine
and beer and food, fear not! We explored craft beer and small breweries all
over the country. We visited many wineries, across several regions -- Wairarapa
and Hawke's Bay on the North Island, Nelson and Central Otago on the South. We
bought more than a case, but succumbed to the "normal" condition
under which the Kiwis operate: drinking the wine within 90 minutes of purchase!
Six bottles made it home in our luggage, and that doesn't count the bottle of
Pinot Noir that broke in my suitcase midway through the trip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">In New Zealand, winery tasting rooms are
called "Cellar Doors." And many, if not most Cellar Doors have
restaurants on site (rare in California.) It was all very good.</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Finally, some random deep thoughts, observations, and minutiae<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Conservation</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: The Department of Conservation (DOC) is
omnipresent in New Zealand open space and cultural institutions. The green
signs are posted everywhere and it takes its duty of protecting and restoring
more than 12,000 archaeological, historical, cultural, and natural sites very
seriously. Their programs provide people with the opportunities to engage with
these treasures. And they do a remarkable job. Every museum and park we visited
and every trail walked was in tip-top condition. The trails are aggressively
maintained and kept available to all who visit. I don't know what their budget
is, but I do know that all access to these sites was free of charge for all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Seasonal differences</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">: It is summer in NZ, and further south
of the equator than I realized. Queenstown, for example, is at about the same latitude
south as Seattle is north. It was light by 5:30 am and stayed light until
nearly 10 pm. Temperatures and topography were similar to SF Bay Area.</span><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Night sky</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: I saw the Southern Cross, pointed out to me
by our AirBnb host on a clear night at his home on the Pacific coast, south of
Dunedin. Spectacular! I got to sing him a few lines of the Crosby, Stills and
Nash song, which he enjoyed, but didn't seem to know. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">(<span style="background: #F8F8E8;">When you see the</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="background: #F8F8E8; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Southern</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="background: #F8F8E8; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Cross for the first time/You understand
now why you came this way/'Cause the truth you might be runnin' from is so
small/But it's as big as the promise, the promise of a comin' day)</span><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Life with less WiFi</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: during 12 days, I had either little
or no access to the Internet, so I mindfully tuned out of most news coverage,
including the ongoing stream of US election/campaign coverage and mass
shootings, Facebook, and Words with Friends matches. I admit that I missed
knowing what was going on personally for my friends, and I missed being able to
share more frequently the funny day-to-day travel anecdotes. But I was actually
blissfully unaware of world news and faux news-like items. The media void was
actually a gift that helped keep me more "present" and less anxious
about happenings outside of my small sphere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The Donald</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: Kiwis, Aussies, and Europeans are amused and
fascinated and in disbelief by the prospect of Trump as a presidential
candidate. I told most Kiwis that if he gets elected, I will soon be their
next-door neighbor. For the record, they are unanimously laughing at the fact that
this guy is still the front-runner in the GOP primaries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The national flag</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: For several weeks there has been a
national (non-binding) referendum being voted upon by New Zealanders, the
opportunity to select from among 5 new designs for the national flag. The
winner will then go up against the current national flag in a national vote.
The existing flag still has the Union Jack in the upper left hand corner. No
surprise that older Kiwis still feel a kinship or nostalgia for their British Commonwealth
heritage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Practicing acceptance and gratitude</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: on a
one-way flight we took to travel from Nelson to Dunedin on the South Island, we
packed a number of wine bottles into our checked luggage. Upon arrival, and
while waiting at the rental car counter, I smelled that smell... the
unmistakable bouquet of red wine. I quickly opened my suitcase to discover that
a bottle of pinot noir had broken, and much of my clothing was soaked in wine.
After just a few seconds of lamenting the mess and the loss, I started making a
list of what I was grateful for:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The bottle
had been in a bag and then wrapped in a shirt, so any broken glass remained in
the (soaked!) bag and not in my suitcase<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Many of my
clothes, and all of the things that I had borrowed from friends for the trek,
had been packed into John's larger bag, and thus escaped the wine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">When we
arrived at our lodging, the Airbnb host immediately showed me to her washer,
into which I quickly dumped my clothes for a cold rinse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Two light
colored shirts were completely wine-stained. They were old favorites (old as in
more than 10 years old) that while not wearable for the rest of the trip, they
did become lovely additions to my farming clothes pile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Several of my
Icebreaker base layer tops now feature a "tie-dye" pattern, and every
time I put one on, I get to remember my trip to New Zealand!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Lesson:
there's no reason to cry over spilled wine<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Meeting and befriending people</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: What is it about traveling that makes
us more open to noticing and talking and listening to the people around us?
Both John and I were much more engaged than usual with the people we met, and
we even sought them out during our adventures. That included our fellow hikers
and diners, farmers in their market tents, musicians, friends of friends that
we sought out while "in their neighborhood," and a handful of Airbnb
hosts that hosted our stays in their homes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Before this trip, both of us been avoiders of B&B inns, perceiving
them as too-cute kinds of places where interaction with other guests and the innkeeper,
over breakfast or wine, is simply a part of the deal. But as we prepared for
our first three days in NZ, I thought it would be fun to stay in a cool urban
neighborhood in Wellington, and I thought it actually WOULD be cool to have
some close contact with someone we could pepper with questions and who would be
our own in-the-know-local Kiwi. So I searched through the Airbnb listings for a
private room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">There were dozens of choices, but I was psyched about one in the
Central Business District, close to cafés, restaurants, breweries and shops.
Walking distance to the waterfront and national museum and botanic garden.
After a message exchange with "Amanda," I booked 3 nights in their
apartment: a "private room with en suite" and breakfast fixings in
the kitchen. And a kitten named Hobbes! The room + bath turned out to be fabulous, the vintage
building well-refurbished and in a great in-town location. But spending a
little time with a young married late-20s-professionals couple and their 6
month old kitten; getting to know them and learning a lot about New Zealand: as
the commercial says, "priceless." We repeated this Airbnb process for
most of the towns we stayed in over the month. We stayed in people's homes
three more times during the month, and getting to know our hosts was just an
amazing addition to our experience in the country. At our Airbnb farmstay, we
harvested all our own dinner ingredients from their gardens. And then made it
into a dinner party by inviting our hosts to join us! We learned a lot about their
life as second-career farmers, and bonded over the shared agrarian lifestyle
and of course a bottle or two of the local wine...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Driving on the left and Petrol stops</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: John did
all the driving. It took a while before we each automatically entered the proper
car door, and for John to stop turning on the windshield wipers instead of the
turn signals. The gas prices averaged about $1.90 NZD ($1.26 in US$) per liter,
which equates to about $4.80 a gallon. The highest speed limit in NZ is 100
km/h, or 62.5 mph. This is the speed on most roads that are outside of a town
center. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Almost all roads are only two lanes wide, and everyone is pretty
mellow about letting faster cars pass them. On the South Island, we were only
on a divided highway for 6 km. Up north, it may have been 20 km. And that is
NOT because we were seeking out the scenic byways! There are really no traffic
lights except in the densest part of the biggest cities. Most towns have no
traffic lights or even stop signs, and the "highways" go right through
town. Rather, intersections are controlled by roundabouts, which seemed to work
very efficiently. Our GPS lady, whom I named Helen, pronounced the word as
ROUND-A-BOUT, with equal and emphatic accent on each syllable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Travel Security, or lack thereof</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: We had
tickets for a ferry crossing from the North to the South Island, a 3.5 hour
trip on a gigantic auto/truck/passenger-carrying vessel. We arrived early to
check in and check our luggage, as you can only carry on 2 small items, just
like on most airplanes. They did not ask us for identification, and there was
no inspection of any kind, whether personal or property. It was the exact same
when we took a one-way Air New Zealand (domestic) flight from Nelson to
Dunedin! They didn't ask for ID and didn't make us go through security of any
kind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Metric system</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: was only recently adopted by NZ and
Australia in the 1960s. It really is much more logical, but I still practiced
my math skills many times a day converting from kilometers (pronounced
KILL-oh-meters, as opposed to the European kill-AH-mitters) to miles and
degrees Celsius to degrees Fahrenheit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Geeky math tips</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: each kilometer is 5/8 or 0.625 mile. My
quick way to convert: start with the number of kilometers and first take half
(that's equal to 4/8) and then add 1/4 of that half (1/4 of 1/2 equals 1/8). So
a 12 km hike is 7.5 miles: 6 miles (4/8 or half of 12) plus 1.5 miles (1/4 of
6.) And a 272 km drive is 136 plus 34, or 170 miles. Got it?!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Interestingly, I use wine bottle sizing to figure out liquid
amounts, being quite familiar with a 750 ml bottle being 25.2 ounces. So a
gallon, or 128 ounces, is just slightly more than 5 wine bottles or 3.75
liters. I also got to teach my kayaking guide how to convert from degrees
Celsius: he had a tough time with 9/5X + 32! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">$NZD to $US</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: Each New Zealand dollar is exchanged at
about 66 cents to the US dollar. So every price in NZ dollars was automatically
discounted by 1/3. In addition, there is no tipping in NZ, and GST taxes are
included in all prices. So the price you see on a menu or on a price tag is the
exact amount you pay. And it seemed like almost everything was a really good
value.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">EFT-POS</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: Electronic Funds Transfer / Point of Sale is
how nearly ALL things are paid for in all establishments in NZ. Very few people
use cash. So their equivalent ATM card is used everywhere, with the user
selecting whether the funds are deducted from their checking or savings
account. The same machine is also a Credit card reader for the (still somewhat
rare in USA) chipped cards. There were some places that only took EFTPOS; that
is, didn't accept credit cards, so for a few things, including two
privately-rented cottages, we had to use our U.S. ATM card to withdraw cash.
Speaking of cash, the smallest paper bill is a $5 and there are $2 and $1 coins.
The smallest coin is a 20-cent piece, and there is also a 50 cent piece.
Interestingly, cash usage is rare enough among Kiwis that the business traveler
(in his 30s) sitting next to me on the flight wasn't sure what the smallest
coin was!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">Baa</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">: There really are sheep everywhere. Everywhere! Almost
all the sheep were white. And since it is the beginning of their summer, there
are lambs, lambs, lambs all over the pastures. What I didn't expect to see were
so many cattle. Apparently in the last 20 years, the sheep population is down
by nearly half as ranchers have added cows to boost their bottom line: export
of beef and dairy, especially to China, is huge. I did see a sign in one
pasture that said "Beef and lamb chops at work"</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Toilets</span></u><span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">: I forgot to look and see whether the water
circulates in the bowl in the "opposite" direction that it does in
the northern hemisphere. But I was glad to learn that the NZ toilets are
"normal" seat-type units with normal toilet paper. What was remarkably
advanced about nearly every throne I encountered was that the flushing was
accomplished by a button, not a handle, and 99% of them had two buttons: one
for a small and one for a larger volume of flushing water. Why isn't every
toilet everywhere doing this, especially in drought regions like the American
West?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">I also saw two unintentionally funny signs (well, funny to me!) in
toilet stalls. One, in a public toilet, said, "In New Zealand, used toilet
paper is placed in the toilet, not in the rubbish bin." The other one,
also in a public bathroom, showed the proper way to use the toilet!</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial;">I feel a little odd closing out this travelogue with bathroom humor! On the other hand, what is the joy of travel if not to see and learn and experience things beyond the usual, the familiar? I did accomplish all those things, so much that I am already plotting how to do this again, and soon! I am grateful that the natural annual "rhythms" on the farm give us extended periods of time to get away after Harvest. And grateful that our budget can accommodate the expense as well. And finally, I am grateful for the friends who offer to come stay here (to take care of the animals) while we get out of Dodge!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #383838; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-2623530440499638372014-06-11T08:35:00.000-07:002014-06-11T08:35:43.186-07:00The Transformation of Miss Maple<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: large;">From Sheep to Shawl</span></span></div>
Last summer, I experimented with wool sheared from my brown sheep, Miss Maple, to make a square piece of felt. My plan was to use this felt to make a decorative pillow cover. After painstakingly felting the wool by hand, using a combination of wet and needle-felting techniques, I liked the 32" square piece so much, I adopted it as my "blankie." In the car, on the couch, around my shoulders while reading: Miss Maple the blanket -- to distinguish it from Miss Maple the sheep -- became my go-to piece to ward off a chill.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEildlrSt6k_PVPc5G_F3rmoBvJQtlKZPWRpHE_zuFduY9kyD8gBc2UCYcPvt7R9llFeNl1MObp62LWEVSVPlzE9sGgSI2QxJvPN985I5o81Inur_ASPZwexuCM7qJPLkV4kqRQJXIaF6Kw/s1600/IMG_0633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEildlrSt6k_PVPc5G_F3rmoBvJQtlKZPWRpHE_zuFduY9kyD8gBc2UCYcPvt7R9llFeNl1MObp62LWEVSVPlzE9sGgSI2QxJvPN985I5o81Inur_ASPZwexuCM7qJPLkV4kqRQJXIaF6Kw/s1600/IMG_0633.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Miss Maple (the sheep, not the blanket) and me</span></td></tr>
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I got inspired to make a wearable cape-let/shawl/poncho after coveting my SIL Alice's fleece sweater/blanket during a ski week together, and started imagining how I would use this year's shearing to make such a garment for myself. But in early May, a cashmere poncho that I saw hanging in a tony Sonoma boutique became both my muse and a spark for taking Miss Maple (the blanket) and transforming "her" into something new.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnJ-wnmJ1gLnt0T0fg1xZstCqW1LoKbCuVbsFZqBFb-8UsENJBaZp-4V7NmqOzbIj4O9LIEgLf2uUohwDVQ8gTqJKKSOFiTEYHWdIkAOQ906vg-AtHCAF4ljF0q5xVFnDghzjRvuc2DY/s1600/DSCN2704.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnJ-wnmJ1gLnt0T0fg1xZstCqW1LoKbCuVbsFZqBFb-8UsENJBaZp-4V7NmqOzbIj4O9LIEgLf2uUohwDVQ8gTqJKKSOFiTEYHWdIkAOQ906vg-AtHCAF4ljF0q5xVFnDghzjRvuc2DY/s1600/DSCN2704.JPG" height="226" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Steffi enjoyed snuggling with Miss Maple (the blanket, not the sheep) too</span></td></tr>
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I fearlessly cut the square blanket in half, and needle-felted the two ends together, making it a long rectangular piece. When wrapped around my shoulders now, I noticed that the "collar" wanted to be turned down like a shawl or a smoking jacket. So I started thinking about putting some decorative trim on the collar, and discovered I could also curve and taper the front edges so my arms could be comfortably free.<br />
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Lovingly working on transforming Miss Maple the blanket, I soon realized that there was a single person who would love this handcrafted piece as much as I did: my mom. She loved the goofy felted sheep I sent her, as well as the <a href="http://farmer-whoknew.blogspot.com/2013/05/tre-palline.html" target="_blank">palline</a> (aka wooly balls) I made for her last summer. As the shawl started to come together, I knew I was now making this for my mom, to be ready in time for me to give her as a 75th birthday gift. My mother just loves the idea that my farm animals are her de facto grandchildren, so I imagined that adding more of the grandchildren into the project would make it even more special. So Junior (her favorite sheep) and Marco (the puppy) became part of the creation too. And I'm quite certain some of Steffi's fur also remains on the wool.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuw9xKF4DFNYb8Hu2jN9sjBeS-StPD2qzS1GhuB2eCie1tBeHUfC8sH6OKiYHCoTDY6ysZjm4XyGn9kQ014J-OFupfAJoarXz1ceXK8WeBxT7f2fiMxq42aqP8WUk-zYNo6Ap6qfB9l8/s1600/DSCN2794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuw9xKF4DFNYb8Hu2jN9sjBeS-StPD2qzS1GhuB2eCie1tBeHUfC8sH6OKiYHCoTDY6ysZjm4XyGn9kQ014J-OFupfAJoarXz1ceXK8WeBxT7f2fiMxq42aqP8WUk-zYNo6Ap6qfB9l8/s1600/DSCN2794.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Maremma fur from Marco, hand carded and ready for felting</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOurO7-XEthf97mFof7gbZ5DooAroePGbu3hzbplrkj5AU80XVp_0KDzaWWYKlD1hRkzXpsH9RvXOavOdt6rDR1dgFjQUQoqSQOiZF1vPvXqlf8cErGJ_3gEzAu5LvhEnSnirUL_4LGhw/s1600/DSCN2796.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOurO7-XEthf97mFof7gbZ5DooAroePGbu3hzbplrkj5AU80XVp_0KDzaWWYKlD1hRkzXpsH9RvXOavOdt6rDR1dgFjQUQoqSQOiZF1vPvXqlf8cErGJ_3gEzAu5LvhEnSnirUL_4LGhw/s1600/DSCN2796.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Collar trim, made of Junior's wool and Marco's fur</span></td></tr>
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I had saved Marco's fur after combing him and seeing how soft and beautiful it was. When I decided to use it as fur trim, I borrowed Heidi's hand-cranked drum carder and put a bunch of fur through it. After I needle-felted it atop of the wool, my sensitive nose detected a distinct Eau de Marco scent. The remedy was to use soap and hot water both to agitate and further felt the strip, as well as de-odorize it. When dry, I added more fur, more wool, and then repeated the hot wash, and completed it with a final needle-felting pass before pinning it to the collar of Miss Maple the blanket.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjAFzTwiMhVDpLBFup75QdYTgO9HnIs0G2g4b8l5MTlYTIgIItRsUkUPJC5P7lhLzb8TPaqlCHuxCdamD5EXBW6fQGWBH4WXKezy7rrdXh3yT6qZh9sJdB-6xlQcPlfK4ipssJS_YIUU/s1600/DSCN2802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjAFzTwiMhVDpLBFup75QdYTgO9HnIs0G2g4b8l5MTlYTIgIItRsUkUPJC5P7lhLzb8TPaqlCHuxCdamD5EXBW6fQGWBH4WXKezy7rrdXh3yT6qZh9sJdB-6xlQcPlfK4ipssJS_YIUU/s1600/DSCN2802.JPG" height="117" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The cape-let/shawl/poncho, coming together</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC-AUJfhfbYsbXOtOLXx6ApSbW7UK-6VBlOfoI6it9Ni1LBs8HPzBamlV840MnQQ8-bJuVzB9O7lOj-7zJg0a_R1e9q4KhA-c2hRx6WnlXp2wq1zgHkV2NIIGJEnvX7383zwei1sXmX94/s1600/DSCN2800.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC-AUJfhfbYsbXOtOLXx6ApSbW7UK-6VBlOfoI6it9Ni1LBs8HPzBamlV840MnQQ8-bJuVzB9O7lOj-7zJg0a_R1e9q4KhA-c2hRx6WnlXp2wq1zgHkV2NIIGJEnvX7383zwei1sXmX94/s1600/DSCN2800.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Handmade label, using orange eucalyptus leave-dyed wool</span></td></tr>
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I got out the iron and ironing board for the second time this year, and pressed the collar into its folded-over place, and then gave it a few light needle pushes to "train" it in place. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLG-z2YRTSfg0hfDIaJdroUIfEfmP6OrdLC2-YA_0qfXQ493LJbxXAPUK8GrLQztH3WNrZnMJhQn1HINMAgwgKh7C9SxqHc90Gb5AEwaXqsdwQP3Y-GnS0OVNTIUKDI-HYgrIt2cLej48/s1600/DSCN2807.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLG-z2YRTSfg0hfDIaJdroUIfEfmP6OrdLC2-YA_0qfXQ493LJbxXAPUK8GrLQztH3WNrZnMJhQn1HINMAgwgKh7C9SxqHc90Gb5AEwaXqsdwQP3Y-GnS0OVNTIUKDI-HYgrIt2cLej48/s1600/DSCN2807.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's finally beginning to LOOK like it could be wearable!</span></td></tr>
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I recognized it needed a little color and decoration to complete it, and figured out how to make rosettes. I needle-felted together a square of my indigo dyed wool (light blue) with my red maple dyed (nude pantyhose color) wool, and cut out two circles. The circles became spirals and the rosettes were done.</div>
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I also decided to felt together the two open sides so it would just be a pullover-the-head piece.The final step was to felt the rosettes atop the now-closed front placket. So here's the wrap-up (no pun intended) on this project: I just LOVE this transformed version of Miss Maple, from sheep to shawl. I loved having it, I loved making it, and I loved making it for my mom. Happy birthday, with love and some extra warmth, from your most favorite daughter... and Miss Maple (the sheep AND the shawl!)</div>
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<br />Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-6649665747260193932013-05-12T19:02:00.000-07:002013-05-12T19:02:27.912-07:00Tre PallineTre palline. That's Italian (pronounced Tray pa-LEE-nay) for three scoops, like three scoops of gelato. And the word "palline" is a much improved name from the original term I was using: woolly balls! <br />
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It's been nearly a year since I last posted in this blog, and the topic was fear, fiber, and felting. Well it's still about fiber and felting, but I am free of the fear about getting started and "sucking" at making art with wool fiber from my own sheep. After a couple of starts and stops from last May through December, I overcame my inertia after discovering a tool to make the wool-carding process quicker, more efficient, and, well, reasonable! My "rural chick" friend Heidi came over one Saturday morning after New Years with her hand-cranked drum carder, into which we fed pieces of my clean wool and converted it into neatly combed batts! We watched how-to videos on youtube, talked away, and after a couple of hours, I was sold on the idea that I could actually card my own wool. I traded Heidi a bottle of two of wine for a 10 day loan of her drum carder, and a few days later, and I had myself some wool batts to work with!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFd6STGlCjGcH2RcR4pVkIbE5YGVg2UmFpfRNzfioiMsOlI7eCCHztuk5wnJ8aSfodcer6Zl4Rzts-uqeLzuTkr5YUUVxHwSzeLzGHIbb7WxbDdiJnh78HBcB8kzvZ8Py7Z5y-Eqzo2MA/s1600/IMG_0122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFd6STGlCjGcH2RcR4pVkIbE5YGVg2UmFpfRNzfioiMsOlI7eCCHztuk5wnJ8aSfodcer6Zl4Rzts-uqeLzuTkr5YUUVxHwSzeLzGHIbb7WxbDdiJnh78HBcB8kzvZ8Py7Z5y-Eqzo2MA/s320/IMG_0122.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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In mid-January, five of us Rural Chicks gathered for a woolly play date out at <a href="http://canvasranch.com/" target="_blank">Canvas Ranch</a>. I brought all my wool, as did the others. Heidi also brought her felting needles and accessories. Deborah had a felted sheep on the kitchen table, and I immediately knew what I wanted to make. Sheep that would become ornaments for my 2013 Christmas tree. With some basic instruction from the Chicks, I started making my first sheep. I gave him a single ear, and pronounced him to be "Junior," the name of my one eared sheep.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS9q2l_cQmaqKM10w5IybYOLFwsQKWJc36RlikPb04-xdRjmnkTVeib_KsARkcFyE-FJDLDxhVWdNFdAYIKNBFlTegMwF1ylYfylwjVB3P6vlI2OvgvnztzGBvWm0UlwC-DSeRGIwX99g/s1600/IMG_0135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS9q2l_cQmaqKM10w5IybYOLFwsQKWJc36RlikPb04-xdRjmnkTVeib_KsARkcFyE-FJDLDxhVWdNFdAYIKNBFlTegMwF1ylYfylwjVB3P6vlI2OvgvnztzGBvWm0UlwC-DSeRGIwX99g/s320/IMG_0135.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Junior became a gift to his Grandma, who was just as thrilled with my adult artwork as she used to be with my childhood art projects! I ordered some of my own <a href="http://livingfelt.com/" target="_blank">felting needles</a>, and packed up a bag of felting supplies to take along on my 6-week ski trek to Wyoming. On a few evenings, I sat around making sheep, crafting companionably with my old friend Joyce, who was knitting a cowl for me. After a couple of sheep, though, I got a little tired of fussing with attaching legs, and searched for a new project.<br />
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The idea of making eco-friendly <a href="http://www.diynatural.com/how-to-make-wool-dryer-balls/" target="_blank">dryer balls</a> appealed to my practical side. These are baseball sized densely felted balls of wool that you can put in the clothes dryer to decrease drying time, add a natural softening agent, and give fluffiness without static cling to clothes and towels. I started making felted balls, but I didn't want to "waste" my carefully carded wool, so I began making the balls from pieces of clean, but uncombed chunks of wool. The balls came together pretty quickly, but I decided they were just too plain, and what they really needed was some color. I had brought along some yarn from a knitted scarf that had begun to unravel, and also a pair of knitted slippers that just didn't fit my feet. And I felted these beautiful yarns onto the balls.<br />
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I played with different designs and techniques for felting the yarn onto the woolly balls, and quickly decided these were way too pretty to use in the dryer! I remembered a beautiful Steuben crystal vase that was a wedding gift from my coworkers, but was just the wrong shape for a vase. It would be perfect as a holder of woolly balls, and it would be perfect displayed on a bench table in my bedroom!<br />
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Last month, while visiting family in North Carolina, I discovered a bin of handspun yarn in my mother-in-law's vast inventory of crafting supplies. She encouraged me to take them home, and I was excited about making more woolly balls with some new material.<br />
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My friend Sherry, who's an artist and a cyclist (unless it's raining, in which case she's an artist and a cyclist), said she'd love some woolly balls and picked out one of the new yarns she liked. I started felting, allowing myself to let my creative spread organically, and veer from my process of using a single yarn. Soon I had three more woolly balls.<br />
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As I selected the bowl as a prop to photograph the balls, I came upon the idea for what I could call them. They reminded me of little scoops of ice cream! I did a quick search to find the Italian word for small scoops of gelato, and voila: pallina (singular) and palline (plural)! Perfecto!<br />
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Where does this go from here? Who knows? But I did just save another couple of fleeces from this year's sheep shearing, and I am just about to send them off to a mill for the first time to be scoured and carded into batts for me. I am imagining some new felting projects, including some wet-felted pillow covers, although I'm not necessarily limiting my imagination :-)<br />
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Who knew I could morph from a practical, analytical, not-very-artistic woman into a fiber artist who could just "go with" her own creative juices and see where it took her? I don't really know where I'll be going with my woolly creations, I have no specific expectations for what I create, and I'm okay with that. Wait -- check that: I'm GOOD with that!<br />
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<br />Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-33534822055865625442012-05-30T15:26:00.002-07:002012-05-30T15:26:52.375-07:00Fear Factor: Fiber and Felting<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Intimidated... Who me? That's just not a label that anyone who knows me even a little bit would likely pin on me. Assertive and confident (sometimes too much so) yes, but fearful? Nope. So I've struggled a little in the past few weeks with the exploration of something new and different, something in an area where I see myself having very little skill, vision, or propensity. But my tendencies towards acting efficiently and frugally, joined by my dislike of wasting anything, trumped this fear, so I've thrown my guard down and am trying something new: wool crafting or as it is increasingly called: fiber arts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I decided that I would save a fleece or two this year, and that I would do something with the wool. Why would something so natural be so intimidating for me? I have six sheep, abundant suppliers of wool right outside my door. They have to be sheared every Spring, so finding something to do with the fleecy wool makes perfect sense. It's logical. Eco-logical. Thrifty. Green. It's <u>so</u> me, but it's <u>so</u> not! I see myself as non-artsy, and not very visually creative. I've never been very good at Arts & Crafts kinds of projects. I've always viewed them as delicate and requiring finesse, where I am, by nature, more prone to activities that take more physicality and even brute force. And I really dislike the feelings that come along with being "not very good" at something... Uh-oh! An epiphany. Time to ditch my old and untrue belief that if I can't do something well, I shouldn't do it at all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So... A bag full of wool stood in a corner of the garage for a month while I noodled and brainstormed with friends. Sherry brought me a book on wool "felting." I browsed through, looking at the pictures of project ideas and techniques, and judged felting to be "more burly" than spinning the wool and knitting with it: perfect!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">But the wool sheared from my very-dirty vineyard-grazing sheep does not come already cleaned, skirted, carded, dyed, and ready to make felt. These things I would have to figure out on my own. Google was dispatched to my rescue, and I got the basic how-to's of skirting (trimming away</span> the wool sheared from the rear end, legs and belly because it's too full of manure to use) and hand-washing the wool. This morning I spread out a tarp on the driveway, put a single wool fleece on top, skirted and pulled out big thorns and dirt clods, and then double-washed and double-rinsed the wool in two grape picking bins.</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I re-purposed the bench above and a clothes drying rack to hang the clean wool outside to air dry. I still have another fleece to clean, but I am feeling just a little bit proud of having taken the first steps. Next up will be figuring out the dye process and carding, although I'm not sure of the order in which I take those two steps! Who knew, when I said I do, that someday I would (1) have the courage to identify and understand an old fear and (2)</span><span style="font-size: small;"> get past that fear and get "crafty"?! </span></div>
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Once again, I'm drawn back to the quote I inserted in my <a href="http://farmer-whoknew.blogspot.com/2012/02/joys-of-being-beginner.html" target="_blank">blogpost</a> from mid-February: "In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities; in the expert's
mind there are few." Zen master, Shunryu Suzuki.</div>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-16947323246244354452012-04-04T18:57:00.000-07:002012-04-04T18:57:36.889-07:00Slinging Poo<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">Who knew,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">when I said, "I do," </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">that I'd spend my birthday </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">slinging poo?</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Okay it wasn't really "poo," but it sure looked like it! Today, my 52nd birthday, was also day 3 of our grapevine re-planting project. Alongside my favorite farmer, partner, and husband, I spent about 4 hours kneeling in the vineyard, playing in the mud. Specifically, as John dug and chiseled out soil and rocks to make holes in which to plant the new vines (replacements for the dead vines we removed last Fall), he shoveled the stuff into a 30 gallon plastic bin. With winter/springtime natural springs still active, the holes were filled with mud and muddy clay. I pulled out rocks, mixed in compost, and added fertilizing amendments. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a 30 gallon bin, being used for its intended purpose: harvesting grapes. <br />
But it's incredible how many projects make use of the bins!</td></tr>
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Picture the bin full of poo. Wait... on second thought, don't! Because it actually has no smell, although it does look and feel like... well, poo. But since it's my birthday, picture a tub full of rich semi-frozen chocolate gelato. It's ribboned with gooey fudge. And firm malt-balls that range from golf ball size to coffee mug size. On top of that, add a thick layer of crushed oreo cookies, and then atop <i>that</i>, a layer of powdered sugar. Then take a large hand trowel and mix it all together, kind of like they used to do originally at Steve's Ice Cream (Boston area, early 80's) or at Coldstone Creamery. Then, forget about the trowel: put both (gloved) hands in and mix it together! This is a concoction that the new vines will just love.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So the vine -- which is really a stick of rootstock, with a grafted-on piece of still-dormant syrah budwood with two buds -- goes into the hole. I pour and John guides the "ice cream" on top of the carefully placed roots until the hole is full and the top of the rootstock plus the buds are sticking out. I insert the pencil rod next to the vine, and connect it to the irrigation wire and the fruiting wire. Then I put on a protective tube, fill it with some sawdust to insulate the buds from frost, and tie the tube up to the pencil rod.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In between the morning and afternoon poo-slinging sessions, I did get in a short bike ride, including a delicious lunch with my cycling partner, Sherry. I got a few opportunities during the day to read my MANY Facebook messages wishing me a happy birthday. I opened cards. I talked to my mom, my dad, and got messages from my brothers. And now, from my blogging perch, I hear the sounds of Farmer John making me a special birthday dinner. I am grateful for a day spent outdoors with friends and loved ones. And I'm grateful for all the good wishes and thoughts that friends shared with me.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">Who knew,</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">when I said, "I do," </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">that I'd have my birthday cake</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">and eat it too?</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, on my 2nd birthday.</td></tr>
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</div>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-44237160550065240302012-02-16T18:17:00.000-08:002012-02-16T18:17:11.632-08:00The Joys of Being a Beginner<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This year marks my 40th season on skis. It's been a l-o-n-g time since those first awkward efforts on my junior high school ski-club weekend in Seven Springs, Pennsylvania, and I'm now proud to label myself an "Advanced Skier." With an average of 15-20 annual ski days during most of the years when I had a "real job," and 25-30 days a year since becoming a winegrower, I <i>should </i>be Advanced, right? Earlier this week, I had a few days in a row in the fresh powder when I just couldn't seem to pull it all together anymore. (Note: Yes, I still do remember that even a tough day on the slopes is better than a great day in the office!) But I was frustrated and annoyed, and feeling like I needed to take some lessons again. What I didn't know is that the lessons would come from a couple of beginners. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Catching a chairlift with my nephew, John</span></td></tr>
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<div style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"></div><div style="background-color: white; border: medium none; color: black; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities; in the expert's mind there are few," wrote the great Zen master, Shunryu Suzuki. Learning to maintain a beginner's mind is one of the teachings I valued most from my first yoga teacher. It means taking an attitude of openness and eagerness, and letting go of preconceptions when studying a subject, just as a beginner would. Somehow my inner skier had forgotten to keep a beginner's mind, and I ended up a little frustrated instead of joyful.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Last Fall, when I invited my sister-in-law, Alice, and her husband and kids to visit us in Steamboat, I didn't know that I'd actually be skiing with them. Three of them were beginner-level snowboarders, and one was a ski-wee with just 4 prior ski days in his little legs. For their first 2 days here, they all took lessons and then had 2 more days to ski/ride together. That third day was another snowy deep-powder day, but I decided to give my exhausted legs (and brain) a break and join them on the gentler ski trails. 7 year old Davis, on 30" long skis and without ski poles, decided he wanted to follow behind in my tracks. He and I both used a snowplow wedge stance, known in ski school circles as pizza. We made pizza to go around the turns and then straightened the ski angles into "french fries." We called out pizza, french fries... pizza, french fries over and over until we were at the bottom, laughing and talking about the great run we took. Almost-10 year old John, on his snowboard, wanted to go in the trees and ski in the powder. I let him lead me and Davis into the woods to make fresh tracks in the new snow. We hooted and hollered in and out of the aspen trees, up and down the tiny moguls and dips. On every chair ride, riding with one of my nephews, who both clamored to ride up with Aunt Deb, we'd talk about the run and plan the next one. The final run of the day was accomplished in an almost total whiteout, an epic adventure for all. Over après-ski beer, soda, and wings, as well as the trail map and all the data on my brother-in-law Jeff's ski-tracker app on his iPhone, my nephews relived every run.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisEKrsp4cCTRGk745GFxLvA3J5ruLkblODB6ZFjNWLfOybJmua212869PPD3t4Ed5rzGotab2wVjIteWqDE5NJammFG6VqmZeqGd0Bad486M1difXo_47h4d4hEBoDrdNM7uqLMsyFRDI/s1600/davis1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisEKrsp4cCTRGk745GFxLvA3J5ruLkblODB6ZFjNWLfOybJmua212869PPD3t4Ed5rzGotab2wVjIteWqDE5NJammFG6VqmZeqGd0Bad486M1difXo_47h4d4hEBoDrdNM7uqLMsyFRDI/s320/davis1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My nephew Davis, proud to be a real skier</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">By their 4th and final ski day, I knew I wanted to spend the day skiing with them. My legs <i>and </i>my brain felt rested, and it had been a kick to both guide them and ski with them all over the mountain. Uncle John decided to join us as well, and we took them up to the summit for the first time. After an easy warm-up, we introduced the whole crew to their first "black diamond" run, a short run down the bowl, followed by a bounce through the powder and back to the lift. Nephew John was the first to the bottom and Davis, a few tumbles notwithstanding, made it down just fine. We introduced them to all new runs and after lunch, I took young John on another black run. I told him I was confident he would do fine, so we left the others and skied down Storm Peak together. As we waited at the bottom for the others to meet us for the next chair ride up, he was giddy and explained to me how he had to adjust his riding to get down the steeper trail.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Davis and his mom, Alice, on the chairlift</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Leading Davis through the final run of the day, with both of us practicing pizza and french fries, I realized that my frustration had evaporated and my balance and joy of being on skis had returned. It was exhilarating to get back to basics and approach skiing as a beginner again. Through the eyes and minds of my two young nephews, I was treated to skiing anew. It was a splendid gift, both the ski adventure <i>and </i>the reminder of the endless possibilities for delight when I embrace my beginner's mind. (Many thanks to John and Davis, Alice and Jeff.)</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Family Portrait: Alice and Jeff, young John, <br />
not-old John, and Davis on the gondola</td></tr>
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</div>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-6407825344211788812012-01-24T16:15:00.000-08:002012-01-24T16:15:42.619-08:00My way or the Hemingway: A Moveable Feast<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><i>If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever <br />
you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.</i> <br />
- Ernest Hemingway, to a friend, in 1950</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This quotation on the title page immediately drew me in, and I happily settled down to read my first ever Hemingway book, <i>The Moveable Feast</i> <span style="font-size: x-small;">(1964, posthumously.)</span> When Woody Allen's movie, <i>Midnight in Paris</i>, came out last year, I was a little surprised to realize I'd never read any of the classic Hemingway novels. Both the movie setting --Paris in the 1920s-- and the eccentricity of the Ernest Hemingway character sparked my interest, so when I found <i>The Moveable Feast</i> on the bookshelf here in my temporary "home away from home" in Steamboat Springs, Colorado, I picked it up and started tagging along on Hemingway's amusing adventures in 1920s Paris.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>The Moveable Feast</i>. The title strikes me as a metaphor for many periods in my own life, and specifically for life at the moment. Farmer John and I just left behind our now-pruned-and-dormant grapevines to take a winter break, a ski sojourn. We are now nearly a week into our 6 week ski/stay in Steamboat, staying in a beautiful, modern log cabin-style home, just west of town, via a <a href="http://www.homeexchange.com/" target="_blank">home exchange</a>. Our "exchange-partners in crime," Frank and Carol, are at our place in Sonoma Valley minding the KFV homestead and animals as they escape their cold, snowy winter for a while.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The plan for 30+ days of skiing as the core of outdoor enjoyment is how we select our locale. But one of the main reasons we love doing home exchanges for these extended trips is that we can really make ourselves comfortably "at home" somewhere. For us, home is less about the specific place, and more about indulging ourselves in our favorite "normal" indoor activities, including reading, writing, eating and drinking, watching televised sports, and last but not least, cooking for and with friends. Home is one of our favorite places to hang out. So finding and temporarily transporting our lives to someone else's well-loved, and beautifully-maintained home that quickly becomes "home" for us is a perfect choice. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As I feasted on the early chapters of <i>The Moveable Feast, </i>John was in the kitchen transforming dough into his famous pizza crust. He had started making the dough 36 hours earlier, just as he does at home. And he used his natural yeast, sourdough starter that he's been keeping alive and growing for more than 6 years, brought with us from home. And he mixed it with his 525 watt KitchenAid mixer that he brought from home. The pizza baking stone and peel, also brought from home. And the inspiration for the pie? Yup, from home! The night before the long drive to Colorado, we had dinner at our local favorite, <a href="http://www.rossopizzeria.com/" target="_blank">Pizzeria Rosso</a>, and tried for the first time their "Goomba" pie, a pizza lightly topped with spaghetti and meatballs. Seriously! I was skeptical, but quickly won over by the light touch and the incredible melding of the topping with the crust.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEC4GzTdDRAc0YrgUBESZiYZHpWxtEQ84Btlx-TenzEBcljMfivPj-DT6lPORRJOzNCiob4vV6hFlTJk5Ap_XacjIoACTdYGZ3M4OIeTystkXkvnUFeLFpU7pJFtbIfbw7IremGMfUMdI/s1600/DSCN1357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEC4GzTdDRAc0YrgUBESZiYZHpWxtEQ84Btlx-TenzEBcljMfivPj-DT6lPORRJOzNCiob4vV6hFlTJk5Ap_XacjIoACTdYGZ3M4OIeTystkXkvnUFeLFpU7pJFtbIfbw7IremGMfUMdI/s320/DSCN1357.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Assembling the toppings on the "Goomba 'Za"</td></tr>
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In our refrigerator here in Steamboat was a little leftover spaghetti and sausage from dinner a few days prior. I roasted a red pepper, sliced a little fresh mozzarella, and we had our pizza toppings. Salad was radicchio and lettuce from our Sonoma garden, tossed with some <a href="http://www.robertbialevineyards.com/" target="_blank">Biale </a>olive oil and lemon juice. And though I rarely do so, I chose the wine to go with the Goomba pie: our friend <a href="http://www.muscardinicellars.com/details/SangioveseMonteRosso2009.html" target="_blank">Michael Muscardini's 2009 Sangiovese</a> from the Monte Rosso Vineyard in Sonoma Valley.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of S-es: Sonoma-Style Saturday Supper Surfaced<br />
in Steamboat Springs; Served with Sangiovese.</td></tr>
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With only the tiniest bit of a buzz on, I realized that what we had here was our own version of a moveable feast! To borrow from and expand on Hemingway's quote, <i>Home is a Moveable Feast!</i> Not just the food and wine, but also the way of living and loving life. My way or the Hemingway... <span style="color: #990000;">who knew</span> they'd be so similar?! And <span style="color: #990000;">who knew</span> that this Hemingway newbie would discover this connection so immediately and intimately... and feel compelled to write about it? Hemingway suggested that as a writer, he would write what he saw as being true, and that in doing so, he would be well on the way to writing something that is good. Mmhmm. Indeed.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2aDuQj3aXPCzN4BtVKFz0sStbs-POaYt7AayuZ5ipWCaBr6LQU3HE5FRHPebvsDLdi-mvnkogYeJfzCUI1XtkpL7b-noGnrfUossMqUMgdPfACqqQqyEhb6NKb5dJVSfw3CXDathdvtQ/s1600/ernest-hemingway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2aDuQj3aXPCzN4BtVKFz0sStbs-POaYt7AayuZ5ipWCaBr6LQU3HE5FRHPebvsDLdi-mvnkogYeJfzCUI1XtkpL7b-noGnrfUossMqUMgdPfACqqQqyEhb6NKb5dJVSfw3CXDathdvtQ/s320/ernest-hemingway.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Papa Hemingway and Kitty</td></tr>
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</div>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-66626263674607511492012-01-11T19:03:00.000-08:002012-01-11T19:03:07.009-08:00Not just a Farmer; I'm now a Rural Chick!<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I've always thought of myself as a city gal. I love the buzz of urban activity, the way people hurry from here to there, the feel of concrete under my feet, the fabulous restaurants and shop-window displays to savor. The array of sights and sounds has always had a way of energizing me, from D.C. to Boston to New York to San Francisco. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmWhJMzrNFBAkJreGtlJYf0h1zKidC4ClyuyfVu9CrEkhfPKTSutpZi7yS2pT4l8LFRKPSKVxryCeZ_-ZqBPwv3GUimSh2rN9jbm9zNobyecZpSbovY2EksJvW_TaI3BcZH0wmHXD4Jw/s1600/farmer+deb+in+the+city+june+19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmWhJMzrNFBAkJreGtlJYf0h1zKidC4ClyuyfVu9CrEkhfPKTSutpZi7yS2pT4l8LFRKPSKVxryCeZ_-ZqBPwv3GUimSh2rN9jbm9zNobyecZpSbovY2EksJvW_TaI3BcZH0wmHXD4Jw/s320/farmer+deb+in+the+city+june+19.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As a gag, Sara sent me her high-school-vintage Lee overalls to me <br />
when I still lived in SF, but was getting ready to move to the vineyard.</td></tr>
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It's now been nearly seven years since our move from Silicon Valley and San Francisco up to Sonoma County, where my front "yard" is a few acres of hillside grapevines, a large vegetable garden, and a steep, wooded hill. My backyard reveals oak tree after oak tree, a west-facing view across the valley, and the summer pasture where the sheep (and dog and hen and barn cats) graze, nap, and chew the cud. I can't see my nearest neighbor, and the most prevalent sounds are crickets and frogs chirping and croaking, neighboring donkeys braying, and hawks screeching. Unless I leave the farm, and there are many days when I do not, the only people I might see besides Farmer John are the vineyard workers across the deer fencing on the adjacent property, the UPS driver, the propane delivery guy, and well, that's about it.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
To be clear, while our home setting is decidedly rural, our property is just barely east of the city limits of Santa Rosa, a city with a population of 160,000. It takes only15 minutes to get to the freeway and about an hour to get over the Golden Gate into San Francisco. Easy access and egress were desirable characteristics upon purchasing our property and later quitting our "day jobs" to move up here and farm. I wanted to feel like I could easily go to and from the city to play or just to get "out of Dodge" for a spell. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But I've found myself gravitating to a different state of mind over the last 6 months or so, and I'm pondering and marveling at a new moniker: Rural Chick. It started late in the summer when Sally added me to an unlisted and private Facebook group called Rural Women Rock. Within about two weeks, there were 500 women in the group, all of whom were invited by some other rockin' rural woman. There was a flurry of conversation threads from women of all ages, all over the country, centered around rural life and our places therein. One post that I got a huge kick out of was by an Indiana woman in her mid-20s who was preparing for a "combine date," and was seeking suggestions about what she might prepare and pack into a dinner picnic basket. If you're wondering, as I did in a comment on the post, exactly what a combine date is, <span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">here's the response from a more "experienced" cattle ranching woman from Iowa: it's when your date consists of riding in the buddy seat of the combine (tractor) with your "friend." </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">There were many conversations about blogging and social networking; it's where I finally realized that I had some things to say, and that's how my blog started! I was introduced to an eclectic collection of women's blogs, and really learned a lot about other people's agricultural interests and ways of life. We talked as a community about the business of raising animals for food, canning fruits and vegetables, rural and farmer fashions, rural parenting, what we liked to drink after a long day of work, and just shared mutual admiration and support for a lifestyle in rural American communities. I was fascinated with the group, and enjoyed chiming in with comments. Alas, two months after its inception, the group imploded when an "outside" rockin' rural woman happened to buy the Rural Women Rock name, URL, and Twitter handle. Some of the inside women decided that they wanted no part of a group with a name that someone else had bought the usage rights for and would -- GASP! -- try to make a profit from. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">All activity in the group ceased, and another new "page" was formed, but the community aspect, where anyone could start a conversation, was kaput. I still follow some of the blogs, but found myself missing the camaraderie of the community, even though it had been with people I didn't even know! About a month later, I received a very cool invitation from, Deborah, my Sheep School and Lamb Camp partner, and it reignited my interest in communing with rural women -- in person! -- right in my own area.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8HF_vKS6PHEKBcqbDAYgqzfqM-WxRAT92oRi52E3C6laoMLzYO065G0sh8lPB7DYMZhU1wHEPEu9CaDX8NuOhl8ninH13hH162U0pz2MU__anTMSzR1sxe3JvQFbTDJkrQtSljlpNdE/s1600/389781_2556380202645_1648179462_2485774_71854967_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8HF_vKS6PHEKBcqbDAYgqzfqM-WxRAT92oRi52E3C6laoMLzYO065G0sh8lPB7DYMZhU1wHEPEu9CaDX8NuOhl8ninH13hH162U0pz2MU__anTMSzR1sxe3JvQFbTDJkrQtSljlpNdE/s320/389781_2556380202645_1648179462_2485774_71854967_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How could I resist?! It was right up my alley.</td></tr>
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</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">Rural Chicks doing the Rounds of local Roadhouses! And they invited <i>me</i>! <b style="color: #990000;">Who knew, when I said "I Do,"</b> that I would both identify with AND be identified by others as a Rural Chick! Can you tell I'm energized by this? </span><span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">Woohoo! The first meetup was in December, when 5 of us convened in western Sonoma County for "dishin', cussin', bitchin', and heehawin' " The only thing missin' in the list was drinkin', and we did that too. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">Other than all being women who live and work in an area that is somewhat rural, though proximate to population centers, we are all passionate about and somehow work in agriculture. After that first night out, I was excited to have some new friends, and we saved the date for a January outing. That follow-up outing was last week, and 13 Rural Chicks came a-Round for a date at a fancy local Roadhouse, Barndiva, in Healdsburg. [Full disclosure: it was actually not a roadhouse this time, but we had a great time sharing our work and interests, and vowed that the Roundups would continue, with an emphasis on real roadhouses (read, casual and cheap!) where we could be loud and linger without bothering anyone.]</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">Of the 13 "chicks," nearly all of us write blogs and/or a website about our lives and work in a rural, agricultural community. As a group, we farm winegrapes, olives, milk, fruit and vegetables, and pigs and chickens. We have sheep, goats, alpacas, cows and horses, livestock guardian dogs and an assortment of ducks, geese, and hens. We all love good food, advocate for local agriculture that connects our farmers with residents and restaurateurs, and we teach people how to get involved in agriculture themselves. I am so looking forward to developing friendships and new ideas together with this group of Rural Chicks. Who knew?!</span></div>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-82933470495830327342011-12-30T18:13:00.000-08:002011-12-30T18:13:35.160-08:00Ditching the "Worst-Case Scenario"<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Throughout childhood, my education, and all the corporate career years, I was well-indoctrinated into the common practice of preparing for the "worst case scenario." Who among us didn't have a parent who told us we had to wear clean, un-tattered underpants because if we got hurt, the rescuer or doctor would discover the quality of your "drawers." My mom wouldn't let me wear blue or purple nail polish because if they found me after an accident, they would get one look at my nails and think I was in cardiac arrest. Never mind that my fingernails could have been perfect accessories to some cool outfit, we had to act as if the worst thing would actually happen!</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My college degrees are both in Engineering, which at its core, applies science and math towards solving problems. The discipline is aimed at finding solutions, but the art is to find a <i>good</i> solution. Engineers are stereotypically a risk-averse bunch, and much thought goes into minimizing the risk of bad outcomes, also known as worst case scenarios. If any of you non-Engineers are glazing over at this point, I'll simply offer exhibit A, which I'm sure you're familiar with.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT4itpPo0mE3JErNo7-3Hd_NABczVbgt1S-o8CKSDDqzUgbc-PaD6mXbCMFudqcvVzyRYZgVnaY88PHyXl7wJkEJbVQWC5RTUTtuWtdZhSxhQJIMhB8_8ceFCkHquXFq_DTWYq5wIQZ44/s1600/Picture+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT4itpPo0mE3JErNo7-3Hd_NABczVbgt1S-o8CKSDDqzUgbc-PaD6mXbCMFudqcvVzyRYZgVnaY88PHyXl7wJkEJbVQWC5RTUTtuWtdZhSxhQJIMhB8_8ceFCkHquXFq_DTWYq5wIQZ44/s200/Picture+2.png" width="132" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">You'll probably agree that most of us, whether we know it or not, are in the habit of anticipating that things will go <span style="font-size: small;">wrong</span>. This way, we can play it safe! I still recall one of the key principles I learned in Dale Carnegie's "How to Stop Worrying and Start Living" training back in the mid 1980's: </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">----> When you're making a decision or a change in direction, first identify </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">the worst case scenario. Accept that as an outcome. And then improve on it. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">That is, <i>start</i> with thinking about the worst thing that could happen. Then, after you accept that as what could happen, start working on what you want as a better result. And this principle was offered to help you "stop worrying" over the worst thing that could happen! </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A couple of months ago, on a bike ride, my friend Sherry and I were deeply engaged in conversation about "the law of attraction," which basically says that you attract into your life whatever you think about, and that your dominant thoughts will find a way to manifest. So as we pedaled, it occurred to us that if you're making decisions and living life with a mindset of avoiding the worst-case scenario, then the very idea of investing mental energy in the worst-case scenario could easily lead to the manifestation of that worst case! WHAT IF, we thought, you assume and plan for the best possible outcome? What could life be like? What if we stopped worrying about what bad or scary things might happen and start imagining all the amazing things you could bring about?</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I decided to put this into practice last month after John and I received the news that the many cracks in the facade of our 7 year old house were not the cause of water damage, they were a symptom of something a lot more serious: construction flaws that allowed rainwater to get behind the high-tech coating and moisture barrier system and start rotting the wood panels underneath in the frame of the house. It had to get fixed, and sooner was deemed to be definitely better than later. The "old me" would have freaked out, looked for finger-pointing opportunities, obsessed about the extent of the damage and potential cost, and worried about starting such a project at the start of our rainy season and just prior to an extended home exchange where other people will be living in our house for 6 weeks in January and February! Instead, I accepted this event as an opportunity to practice the assumption of the best case scenario. <b><span style="color: #990000;">Who knew</span></b> that a former engineer (not to mention an old dog!) like me could let go of all those ingrained habits and work on preparing myself for experiencing the <i>best</i> possible outcome?</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Emotionally, intellectually, and physically, I consciously "let go" of involvement in the project, choosing instead to focus on expecting and envisioning progress and on-time completion. Husband John liaised and built an alliance with the contractor, our original builder and our architect, who all rallied around the project and agreed to financially support the project. They set goals to get the problems corrected by the end of the year <u>without</u> the involvement of lawyers and insurance companies. We knew it would be smoother, more collaborative, and less costly for everyone to spend our time and money on fixing the problem, not paying attorney fees and wasting time in litigation.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scaffolding up, exterior stripped down to the wood</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div>Six weeks ago, the scaffolding went up. We had to duck to go in and out of the front sliding <span style="font-size: small;">doors</span> and the garage entry/exit was tricky! The day after Thanksgiving, demolition began as the layers of exterior coatings were chiseled off, from the color-impregnated acrylic coating, to the 1.5" thick white styrofoam insulation, to the black paper coating atop the wood. Then they started pulling out nails to remove and replace the sheets of plywood, and they removed and resealed each one of our 16 windows. It was noisy, it was messy. But every morning, anywhere from 3-7 guys started arrived and began working between 7:30 and 8. They (mostly) cleaned up after themselves, they were polite and pleasant, and they worked hard. I asked questions and John gave me updates, but I pretty much stayed out of it. When the contractor came over to check progress and talk with his crews, I talked with him, but never about details, and mostly about life in general and how pleased I was with the work and his guys.<br />
<br />
So how did it turn out?<br />
<br />
<ul style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><li>Do you remember I mentioned we are at the start of our rainy season? Every single day during the demolition and re-construction was sunny. The mornings started in the mid-high 30 degree range, but quickly warmed up to high 50s and up. So the weather was even better than we could have even hoped for. </li>
<li>There were no rain delays and mild temperatures allowed the new exterior coatings to be applied and dry/cure easily. </li>
<li>John and I were able to go about our business of getting the vineyard ready for the next growing season, confident that the work would get done without our hovering. </li>
<li>The color match is perfect. </li>
<li>The landscaping around the scaffolding is pretty much unscathed, save for lots of tiny bits of styrofoam in the mulch. </li>
<li>The final detail steps were completed on December 28 and the scaffolding was removed on the 29th, before the end of the year, as planned.</li>
<li>John, ever my hero, steered the process like a champ, and joined me in assuming the positive outcome.</li>
<li>I stayed calm, eerily and deliciously serene, throughout the whole process. I marveled both inside and aloud at how well the project was progressing, and regularly "checked in with myself" around the fact that I was consciously practicing assuming that the best case scenario would happen.</li>
</ul><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This born-and-bred East Coast gal, formerly "type A to the max," did it! I practiced the law of attraction and I planned for the best case scenario, and it happened that way! Cycling partner and native LA gal, Sherry, pronounced that I am now officially a Californian (After 20 years here, I know she meant that in the nicest and grooviest way!) I'm not sure how I could ever again feel like planning for the worst case is the right choice for me. Sure, things may not always go the way I think they should or could, but I know that I can take things as they come and adjust as needed. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So while I will always wear clean underwear and will probably abstain from blue or purple nail polish, I'm not preparing for the worst anymore! And I know this is an improvement -- I am a better, a free-er, and a happier person for the experience of planning for the best. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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</div>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-54282648369342298012011-12-14T17:38:00.000-08:002011-12-14T17:40:02.311-08:00The Meaning of Christmas<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Even though I was born and raised "a nice Jewish girl," my mom, brother and I always celebrated both Hanukkah <i>and</i> Christmas. In our rendition of Christmas, there was obviously no religious connection, but we always had a Christmas tree (with presents underneath) in the living room, a big styrofoam Santa Claus face hanging on the front door, and a sprig of mistletoe hanging in the kitchen. We knew all the words to every Christmas carol, faith-based and seasonal, and sang them heartily.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiSbWjtSFMuImaF4HOMIIaim1QZT2UUvXesxigicvWbwzVD4VzRRLnduaJRf-K5_itaaISW2sKHI-kmEr6QmryMrrvUNV4c8Jj_DV5b-VkldemrxTO1nZYpwX2qA7bP0UL0yt_NeU4Nk/s1600/1969.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiSbWjtSFMuImaF4HOMIIaim1QZT2UUvXesxigicvWbwzVD4VzRRLnduaJRf-K5_itaaISW2sKHI-kmEr6QmryMrrvUNV4c8Jj_DV5b-VkldemrxTO1nZYpwX2qA7bP0UL0yt_NeU4Nk/s320/1969.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas morning, 1969, with my mom and 7 year old brother.<br />
Note the "irreverent" pregnant angel topping the tree.</td></tr>
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In college, by my junior year, I was living in an apartment, and my roommate and I got a tree and hosted a tree trimming party (any excuse to have a party and serve cocktails!) We thoroughly enjoyed our first "adult" tree in our own place. Sharon and I strung popcorn garlands with our friends, received some very cute ornaments (I still have the skiing teddy bear), and took advantage of some strategically placed mistletoe.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-qQzyjxtLhWmstNMI5bm4Z8MTA90WvQ37aOsVpGFtBf5332nSJ5rNscUfHvVuBldpZzT2sRd9X93TJergRc6hAjD_7A_36B8rk1a5jmLDuGgustL4mobiLrhDLfYu8vi3_hyphenhyphenRFDPlk08/s1600/sc02fc96c5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-qQzyjxtLhWmstNMI5bm4Z8MTA90WvQ37aOsVpGFtBf5332nSJ5rNscUfHvVuBldpZzT2sRd9X93TJergRc6hAjD_7A_36B8rk1a5jmLDuGgustL4mobiLrhDLfYu8vi3_hyphenhyphenRFDPlk08/s320/sc02fc96c5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas 1980: Catching my friend Tommy, under said mistletoe.</td></tr>
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Over the years, without the pressure of kids in my child-free household, I've sometimes skipped the whole tree and decorating thing at Christmas, but more often, John and I have gone to tree farms and cut ours down. Despite the fact that there is a tree farm 1/2 mile from our house, and we don't even have to go on a public road to get there, I just am not "feeling it" this year. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Ditto with the exchanging of gifts. I did select and order books to be shipped across the country as gifts for our young nephews, and I feel good about that. But I just feel kind of... I can't come up with the right word for it, and I don't know how to spell the sound coming from my mouth, but I just don't feel like buying "things" for people. I'd much rather "do things" with people, and enjoy their company, but this is difficult with both our families and many of our friends thousands of miles away.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I'm feeling a little baffled by this gift-giving disdain, because I've always loved Christmas! Yet kind of like Linus Van Pelt, I am turned off by how over-commercialized Christmas has become in our country. Decorations and music in the stores by late October. The 2+ month flood of television commercials (which at least I can fast-forward through!) 24 hours of Black Friday. Cyber Monday. Huge stacks of advertising inserted in the newspaper. Coupons stuffed in the mailbox. Everything on sale in the stores. Spend, spend, and spend more. I mean, why do I have to buy "more stuff" for the people I love? To prove what? Do they really <i>need</i> anything? I simply don't want to buy presents just to check off that I did so or just because I have always given gifts. Will they be upset or feel slighted if I don't buy them gifts? And if they do, how do I feel about <i>that</i>? Actually, just putting these thoughts into words is helpful and rather liberating. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Turning inward, I feel very happy and secure this holiday season. I'm healthy, grateful for what I have, and engaged in activities and groups of friends that I enjoy. I see plenty of people around me who are not so fortunate, whether their despair is economic, poor physical health and/or diminished emotional well-being, and it troubles me. I have been volunteering some of my time and money, and trying to offer kindness and compassion, yet I know I can't save the world, or even substantively help very many people. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So when is it all enough? When are love and compassion and gratitude the gifts that are the most meaningful? And will I be able to give those things to everyone who is open to receiving them? And can I make this the way I live my life, and not just the way I live Christmas?</div>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-45254639257231013162011-12-09T16:14:00.000-08:002011-12-09T16:14:47.258-08:00Spiders and Snakes<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I was never what you would call a "girly girl," but I was also never very fond of bugs while I was growing up. Many childhood "bug" memories stick with me, and most of them still kind of make my skin crawl. </div><ul style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><li>My childhood home was in an apartment in Langley Park, Maryland, just "over the line" from the city limits of northeast Washington, DC. Heat and humidity define summers there, and our air conditioner was always running on high. I remember some sort of leak and the resulting wet areas of a rug. When I lifted the corner of the rug, several large cockroaches scurried out. Ewwww!<br />
</li>
<li>The cockroach disdain grew from there! In 10th grade biology class, we were assigned a project to collect and mount insects from all the different classifications. The insects were placed in a "kill jar" and then mounted to a foam display board, with a straight pin piercing the insect's middle (thorax!) section. I captured a cockroach, committed insecticide with the kill-jar and then mounted it. I was awakened in the middle of the night by a scratching sound. When I turned on the light, I found the cockroach alive and spinning in place around the pin, using his legs to propel the rotations. I kid you not! General disgust of cockroaches notwithstanding, I had extra reasons for really hating those things.<br />
</li>
<li>I was a Girl Scout for only one year, at age 11, because my softball and basketball team practices were scheduled to be on the same days as scout meetings. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and I chose to go for sporting glory over badge-earning endeavors. Anyway, Girl Scout cookie-selling season came around and my mom volunteered to take charge of cookie delivery and storage for our troop. Imagine hundreds of boxes of cookies in our apartment-size living room! The individual cookie packages were packed inside large cardboard boxes, which were stacked everywhere. A few days into this, we saw ants on the wood floor around the boxes. Moving the boxes revealed more ants, and finally, we discovered armies of ants <i>inside</i> the boxes. Zillions of ants marching all over the cookie packages... Ugh!<br />
</li>
<li>Another ant incident comes to mind -- I'd forgotten I even had this memory! Raisin Bran cereal... Pieces of raisin skin would rise to the top in my cereal bowl, floating around in the milk. I swear for the longest time I was convinced they were ants! And I still won't eat Raisin Bran. And candied dates, which we always had at our house during the Passover holiday, looked like cockroaches to me.<br />
</li>
<li>Finally, snakes have always been part of my consciousness. And courtesy of my mom, not in a good way! She is an ophidiophobe, one with an irrational fear of snakes. It's as true now as it was then that even when she sees a snake on TV, she screams. Whether it's Indiana Jones in "Raiders of the Lost Ark," the animated "Jungle Book" movie, or a National Geographic documentary, you know the scream is coming. Even when we went to the National Zoo, she would warn us to stay away from the snakes. </li>
</ul><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So I'd never been a big fan of the creepy or the crawly or the slithery creatures. I thought nothing of squishing them, swatting them, and disposing of them down the toilet. When I started practicing yoga and exposing myself to some Buddhist teachings, my stance softened. After all, "they are sentient beings" just like you and me. And "I am not separate" from them. When I moved up to the Vineyard -- the "country" -- I really changed my thinking. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In and around my house, landscaping, garden and vineyard, there are spiders of every kind. I'm pretty sure they view our property as an arachnid safe haven, and invite all their friends and family to move in. I still draw the line at scorpions (and black widows!) <i>inside</i> the house. All of those are scooped up and relocated outdoors. But spiders are okay! We have reached an understanding, a détente, and we coexist mostly peacefully, indoors and out.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_EGPDm9dM8QhihtgDfGDF7sA23xPV4vdkPVWN4DmEhgd3EExJYhg8iCXP1tgMUL8zk7v66tHhRMJokso0qRYSIp3zUh6NXH99_jrI77RMr4H-tW-LQR5JRBJwosCsUlzFG0FBCeQPaNw/s1600/spider+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_EGPDm9dM8QhihtgDfGDF7sA23xPV4vdkPVWN4DmEhgd3EExJYhg8iCXP1tgMUL8zk7v66tHhRMJokso0qRYSIp3zUh6NXH99_jrI77RMr4H-tW-LQR5JRBJwosCsUlzFG0FBCeQPaNw/s320/spider+002.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spider at home in its web in the syrah vines</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As for snakes, they've played some new roles in my life. Turns out that my husband collected snakes as a kid, so he's comfortable around snakes and can quickly identify beneficial and harmless snakes from the nuisance and dangerous snakes. Rattlesnakes have a frequent summer presence here in the heated rocky foothills. I've found them in the vineyard, in the sheep pasture, in the garage, and sunbathing in the driveway. After my dog was bitten on the nose (and survived) and my cat was bitten on the neck (and didn't survive), rattlesnakes get no slack, zero tolerance. Farmer John whacks them with a hoe, slicing off their heads. DONE.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8NE7sDxkXd61c6JveL7O6rsTu7bSxnR9i4mqLLnNR_I4NnD6v-20-Taq2_MRj-wA1qwUj1efByl9_GuwBB_GA0fPukq78x_Xy7Cp0oKkfN2shfXc47dGyWYonhoVyLddsl3ss4SuFyKc/s1600/Picture+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8NE7sDxkXd61c6JveL7O6rsTu7bSxnR9i4mqLLnNR_I4NnD6v-20-Taq2_MRj-wA1qwUj1efByl9_GuwBB_GA0fPukq78x_Xy7Cp0oKkfN2shfXc47dGyWYonhoVyLddsl3ss4SuFyKc/s320/Picture+2.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rattler, with the hoe that felled him</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But gopher snakes, garter snakes, sharp-tailed snakes, and king snakes are welcome here.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJccIoLZmV_2MNdgQajT33biEOs8EuDYkL57iIJPnUBJNWLf6TwxRmpfXM1EGznkDqZ90gBLX7Tzgl5slVf1UQhmnz2WXFmVDtx9eemyEu2ZrZRpXprL1D3CdOFi60hfYEHDwb6r9WvpI/s1600/Picture+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJccIoLZmV_2MNdgQajT33biEOs8EuDYkL57iIJPnUBJNWLf6TwxRmpfXM1EGznkDqZ90gBLX7Tzgl5slVf1UQhmnz2WXFmVDtx9eemyEu2ZrZRpXprL1D3CdOFi60hfYEHDwb6r9WvpI/s320/Picture+2.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A long garter snake made an appearance while brother and S-I-L, <br />
Lawrence and Nelli, were here. John had to convince them it wasn't a rattler.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I enjoy seeing these snakes around. It's become a game with us to see who spots them first, and I always do a "victory dance" when it's me! When I see a spider in the house (like, every day), I'll often say hello to it, hoping they don't mind that I call them all by the same name (Spidey.) <span style="color: #990000;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #990000;">Who knew, when I said "I Do,"</span> that I would ever actually view spiders and snakes as salutary creatures, let alone worthy co-inhabitants of my home and planet Earth? I've come a long way baby!</div>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-82906083620047596512011-11-28T09:32:00.000-08:002011-11-28T09:32:01.682-08:00Bring on the Party, I Got My ShoesMy mom likes to tell the story of my first pair of "big girl dress-up party shoes." Apparently they were a pair of Stride Rite white patent leather Mary Janes, kind of like these.<span id="goog_1024842422"></span><span id="goog_1024842423"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYehnJ8LFfybLFSG8HML0goVlYg5FSoR_OrqWK9AcPujil3UHIm2A5OuOsuljKNuNZcv_f8gUP0tzwg0APBSGQenSs0JSuojnEOEFnbVRaX50qn_E9qq6An57ISiMmEYBeEYV4l0lFl4o/s1600/Picture+3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYehnJ8LFfybLFSG8HML0goVlYg5FSoR_OrqWK9AcPujil3UHIm2A5OuOsuljKNuNZcv_f8gUP0tzwg0APBSGQenSs0JSuojnEOEFnbVRaX50qn_E9qq6An57ISiMmEYBeEYV4l0lFl4o/s320/Picture+3.png" width="320" /></a></div>With her still fresh-out-of-Boston accent, she was excitedly telling a friend all about my new party shoes. How would "party shoes" sound with such an accent? Well, imagine the way Matt Damon pronounced the name of the 2006 movie he starred in, "The Departed." Or the name of the baseball stadium where the Red Sox play, Fenway Park. Or the prototypical statement often associated with Boston, "Pahk the Cah in the Hah-vud Yahd." So yes, the friend was baffled and asked my mom why I needed special shoes to go to the bathroom! <br />
<br />
So any dress-up shoes, from then on, have always been thought of as "potty shoes." And I never imagined that I would ever again have a pair of white patent leather potty shoes. But yesterday, which just happened to be "Small Business Saturday," I went to my local bike shop to make the long-overdue purchase of new cycling shoes. The third pair I tried on fit perfectly, but I almost needed a pair of sunglasses to dampen the glare of the white patent leather trim on the toe, straps and heel cup!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBGSIf9zoExtv6xH-wt5EetnfJttnnOMlUIbLz3hneA8oA1yLsgqiGVgaeGTwPALAzvwBYLV4iTbjD0zxYOAu_ZdSl8bJLQK2-UmjimheBPsr9wtscCre5e8dU1RiDmblhnInEQxzjynI/s1600/Picture+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBGSIf9zoExtv6xH-wt5EetnfJttnnOMlUIbLz3hneA8oA1yLsgqiGVgaeGTwPALAzvwBYLV4iTbjD0zxYOAu_ZdSl8bJLQK2-UmjimheBPsr9wtscCre5e8dU1RiDmblhnInEQxzjynI/s320/Picture+2.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I grinned to myself as I purchased them and mentally labeled them my new "potty shoes." <span style="color: #990000;">Who knew</span> my view of party shoe and definition of party would evolve to this?!<br />
<br />
And it's fitting too. Most of my bike rides feature at least one happy or celebratory exclamation of "Woohoo!" There aren't many cycling days left this year, but I'm anticipating a few more during which I'll scuff up these new, shiny white beauties. Pah-ty ON!Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-46799703434804657462011-11-21T10:19:00.000-08:002011-11-21T10:22:13.915-08:00Counting Sheep, Part III<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Nearly a full year of shepherding passed before I was confronted with "the first rule of livestock farming." To put that a little differently, a full year passed before I ever <i>heard</i> of the "first rule of livestock farming." When you raise livestock, that first rule is simple and stark: Livestock Dies. It's not exactly like losing a beloved pet, but for me, it was not exactly <i>not</i> like that either.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;">We had this vision, you see, of growing our flock of babydoll sheep in the time-honored way: through breeding our ram, Farley, with our ewes each October, and eventually, in a few years, trading Farley with another nearby breeder to bring in some genetic diversity. By the time the first lambing season was over in Spring 2007, we had 4 ewes, two unrelated to Farley and two born to Farley's son Tupper. The two experienced ewes were a "given" for continued breeding, Agnes would be bred for the first time later in the Fall, and baby Sylvia would be kept apart from him for another year while she matured. And so the flock would grow...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Farley, doing the lip curl that indicates he's... um, interested. <span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">[Note: We neutered our other two new ram lambs, Roy and Todd, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">leaving them free to grow and happily graze, but not free to sire</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">any new lambs or challenge Farley for dominance. We also sold the<br />
other 3 "intact" rams acquired in our original flock to prevent fighting.]</span></td></tr>
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So we had a happy summer with the 7 sheep, and sure enough, when the number of daylight hours started noticeably decreasing by late September, Farley started spending a lot more time sniffing around the ewes. One morning I witnessed the mating dance between him and Lana. I have to admit that it was simultaneously fascinating and repulsive. <span style="color: #990000;">Who knew, when I said "I Do,"</span> that I'd become a barnyard-peeping Deb? The two consenting adult sheep kept at it for a while, and I was pretty sure there had been a successful coupling. A day later, I saw Farley and Una seal the deal, and two weeks later, Agnes was bred by Farley as well. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DkAKYs2aOpuLZPzXJtNddpxlnNdc-Hwwfd7Meg1OlpM2Hr1f_7g34IoQjn31na11jkSk79L9zsL2uoukOwcshSMNw3b8-yrhBDmTEdSV8nlYI9IsI4_lKP0W_pMt3BrY0XPXGBS50K0/s1600/hahaha+-+agnes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DkAKYs2aOpuLZPzXJtNddpxlnNdc-Hwwfd7Meg1OlpM2Hr1f_7g34IoQjn31na11jkSk79L9zsL2uoukOwcshSMNw3b8-yrhBDmTEdSV8nlYI9IsI4_lKP0W_pMt3BrY0XPXGBS50K0/s320/hahaha+-+agnes.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've always thought of this photo's caption as "Agnes Ha Ha," <br />
her reaction when I told her what was about to happen to her!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
Even prior to all of the barnyard "activity," there was a concern we had with Farley; more specifically, a physical condition he was sporting. Farley's scrotum was huge (and that's an understatement), and hanging very low, practically dragging on the ground. He waddled when he walked, and there were several scrapes on the bottom of the scrotum from hitting rocks. When breeding was over, I had a vet come out to take a look. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This veterinarian was a nearby guy who typically treated horses, but he told me he had experience with sheep too. It's still painful for me to tell this story. So to make it easier than relating all the ugly details, the vet injected Farley with an anesthetic to do what should have been a simple surgical repair. Unfortunately, he overdosed the drug, and Farley died within about 30 seconds. The vet calculated the dosage based on animal weight, but he did not take into enough consideration the difference between horses and sheep. I screamed, then bawled, but it was over. The vet clearly did not do it purposely, but he did truly f*#k up. He called a service to come remove Farley, and at least had the sense not to send me a bill. But Farley was gone, and we were now down to 6 sheep and no ram.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIMkXZf3KN5IeFHFNmsOcoW6sJQOYhOB4GMtzuHiWv0dqZhMyMuLAuXaTswDJ_9mWUq5MZ2-B7EqdXelGo5RDGsceKb1jW9xIJieSZ3Jc-E9i5vcJt9UcB_EBCZ0aPIjebeT0pKRAXFw8/s1600/IMG_5682.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIMkXZf3KN5IeFHFNmsOcoW6sJQOYhOB4GMtzuHiWv0dqZhMyMuLAuXaTswDJ_9mWUq5MZ2-B7EqdXelGo5RDGsceKb1jW9xIJieSZ3Jc-E9i5vcJt9UcB_EBCZ0aPIjebeT0pKRAXFw8/s320/IMG_5682.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's Farley the day before he died. He was the center <br />
of attention for a troop of Girl Scout Brownies that <br />
visited us as part of a project they were working on.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
A new ram came to us a month later, through a woman I'd met a year earlier in one of the online sheep discussion groups. She was downsizing her flock of babydolls to focus on her alpacas and also on her soon-to-arrive baby daughter. John and I drove 150 miles down to Gilroy, CA, where we met Kimberly B. and purchased Gus, a nearly 5 year old ram. We saw pictures of several of Gus' offspring, and they were beautiful animals. We brought Gus home, kept him separated from the rest of our sheep and the dog for 4-5 days, and then let him go free with everyone else out in the vineyard. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVxchyphenhyphenj9qsDIf31touiYuorr24huwi2s7frOUv4dK7esd2k83RoHKc4TCuxwjsd77I3ZLOkUtWVifoFmvfWAHZzT79uCIjq95pdqWvqgx7I1Q4uSb9-GhkIKw8ZoUE5ozig6mNz_keFIQ/s1600/gus+comes+to+kfv%252C+dec12+2007+005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVxchyphenhyphenj9qsDIf31touiYuorr24huwi2s7frOUv4dK7esd2k83RoHKc4TCuxwjsd77I3ZLOkUtWVifoFmvfWAHZzT79uCIjq95pdqWvqgx7I1Q4uSb9-GhkIKw8ZoUE5ozig6mNz_keFIQ/s320/gus+comes+to+kfv%252C+dec12+2007+005.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gus, December 2007</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
Gus was very friendly, and soon became the most popular sheep with us and our visitors, in large part because he loved to be petted and fed handfuls of grass or spare leaves of our garden crops. He never made a sound, but he did burp a lot. He never ever butted me, but he did frequently come over to rub his head on my knees.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZAAm2UxPfdgCctYmopZY2TA1gU24bSpQ0PlugNpNz7mhWiefM8yb8mQeJZGxXszRkECWIwMncmkLOAS2ehyphenhyphenk9y9h7O-SmDNNViVBK9wlMfZuPRs9UNDaJfLqZeOoFoompZIKD2SyJcsc/s1600/deb+and+admirers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZAAm2UxPfdgCctYmopZY2TA1gU24bSpQ0PlugNpNz7mhWiefM8yb8mQeJZGxXszRkECWIwMncmkLOAS2ehyphenhyphenk9y9h7O-SmDNNViVBK9wlMfZuPRs9UNDaJfLqZeOoFoompZIKD2SyJcsc/s320/deb+and+admirers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In the barn with my buddies, Gus and Francesco</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
So at the end of the first full year with sheep, we were back to a population of 7: the 4 ewes, 2 wethers, and Gus the ram. Winter was now upon us, and the new year would be bringing plenty of "storms" and accompanying stories.<br />
To be continued, for better and for worse... </div>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-40167356574600676942011-11-14T16:55:00.000-08:002011-11-14T16:55:35.439-08:00Counting Sheep, Part II<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This story is just crying out for a subtitle. Something like: "How I found myself as a sheep midwife" or "I don't know nothin' about birthin' no lambies!" With the acquisition of an <a href="http://farmer-whoknew.blogspot.com/2011/11/counting-sheep-part-i.html" target="_blank">instant flock of sheep</a>, and two of the ewes presumed pregnant, I was feeling a little panicked. Reading those chapters in the shepherd's "bible," also known as "Storey's Guide to Raising Sheep," made me feel weak-kneed, dizzy, and slightly nauseous. I'd never seen anything born before and never expected to.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I fretted on and off all winter, helpless in the absence of experience, and nervous because I didn't know when the ewes were "due" or even if they were actually pregnant! In mid February (2007), their udders started filling with milk and it was pretty obvious. Then, one sunny Sunday morning, I looked up from the Sunday newspaper and saw a big dark red/purple bag suspended from the back end of Lana, who was calmly munching on grass in the vinerows. I ran to get the binoculars, and a minute later there was a lamb on the ground, then another.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirv86TP6kFHMbtWObYA_8ppOO85mpdSEM_W22lKiWoInEKntiSRKsZzo5nScM9dKoRUx2by1lkrjLQKH44icxQKv_Ky4V-UYwcGk0fkVuRbsREHeNbFVwHi9FdGlxnk7UJmG2zHQPQO1k/s1600/lana_and_lambs_Feb25+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirv86TP6kFHMbtWObYA_8ppOO85mpdSEM_W22lKiWoInEKntiSRKsZzo5nScM9dKoRUx2by1lkrjLQKH44icxQKv_Ky4V-UYwcGk0fkVuRbsREHeNbFVwHi9FdGlxnk7UJmG2zHQPQO1k/s320/lana_and_lambs_Feb25+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Lana and the newborn twins.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">John and I were giddy with delight and relieved that we didn't have to do a thing! Except name them... We had discussed the idea of eating a lamb some day when we had more new lambs than we needed for grazing the vineyard. But no sooner were these two lambs up on all fours and getting their first milk from mom when I announced, "That's Roy. That's Sylvia. And we're NOT eating them." We slowly carried the twins to the barn, with Lana following behind, calling out to her babies the whole time. After observing the three of them in the barn for 3 days, we inserted ear tags, docked their tails, and injected them with their first vaccine. <b><span style="color: #990000;">Who knew, when I said "I Do,"</span></b> that I'd be cooing over my own lambs and piercing their ears and giving them shots?! I'm so squeamish I can't even look when <i>I get</i> injections or have blood drawn.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDIIB_8Tm18nifbWZlEda16SzHMDaSQ3iM1oc2GMCNzC8AnQ2QbbB5up1ohANl6Ac2z8Bh59W3P81_0ejvpgGV3SRURbmRBRep_mmOyLOSclSDg6-RiSCSCJFa5uha22LPROV9gXKUpoM/s1600/sylvia+gets+shots+and+eartag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDIIB_8Tm18nifbWZlEda16SzHMDaSQ3iM1oc2GMCNzC8AnQ2QbbB5up1ohANl6Ac2z8Bh59W3P81_0ejvpgGV3SRURbmRBRep_mmOyLOSclSDg6-RiSCSCJFa5uha22LPROV9gXKUpoM/s320/sylvia+gets+shots+and+eartag.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With three-day old Sylvia, clad in my "lamb suit," which fits over my clothes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So that's the first birth event under my belt. What about Ms. Una? Two weeks later, on another nice Sunday morning, I saw her straining, a sure sign that she was in labor. A short while later, the birthing "bag" appeared and through binoculars, I thought I saw a head emerge. And then, for at least 20 minutes, nothing. Uh-oh. We went outside to check on her progress, our livestock guardian puppy Francesco in tow. The lamb's head, just barely sticking out of the ewe, was covered with the birth sac and Francesco started licking the lamb's face, which started the lamb's breathing. But he was obviously stuck. I was too upset to take photos at the time, but picture the classic creature encountered by Dr. Doolittle: the PushMePullYou. Una had a head attached to her neck and another sticking out of her rear. It's funnier now than it was then!</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">To make a long story short, I did don long plastic gloves and lubed up to see if I could figure out any way to get the lambs front legs out. (Yeah, <b><span style="color: #990000;">who knew</span></b>?) Fighting panic, but soon realizing I couldn't facilitate, John called the vet, who was an hour away. John and I stood there trying to keep the ewe standing quietly and the puppy waiting calmly. A vet in her mobile clinic finally arrived; she had to push the lamb back inside the ewe and then find all his legs and pull him back out. She had to swing the lamb around by his front legs (like a lasso) to get him breathing, and she was pretty sure we were going to lose the lamb and maybe the ewe too.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOfu-A9mLobCJHFP55Ewq_TO126L5wf8AcAS36Ak4K_WA5HXCLQAwWmXsmt8SPvTocE7T6PZDdJXGIbsu9Y35P9jWCtkVPQNIaXluxr8v2NyPm1A26GBcrfD0BQmgkcX5DKm-rFI6IyA/s1600/una_and_lamb+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOfu-A9mLobCJHFP55Ewq_TO126L5wf8AcAS36Ak4K_WA5HXCLQAwWmXsmt8SPvTocE7T6PZDdJXGIbsu9Y35P9jWCtkVPQNIaXluxr8v2NyPm1A26GBcrfD0BQmgkcX5DKm-rFI6IyA/s320/una_and_lamb+002.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After the successful intervention in the birth of Todd</td></tr>
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But the extra-large lamb was fine, mama Una was fine, and we named the lamb Todd the BigHead Monster. Francesco probably saved the lamb's life the first time, clearing his nose and mouth to breathe. To this day, Todd is our largest sheep, and I'll always have a <span style="font-size: small;">soft</span> spot in my heart for him. He is the only one that lets me walk up to him and pet him, scratch his chin, and pull stickers and foxtails off his face.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmgUmL5yF4d1T1iDu5Kh7lwrE-9sFFEy_qcFbKVnn1USGk5jD7mFyZC76IwF5nUvH74qalCXWFn1j4NRAPCaD4WXZ3SYf9xLJiwF6C-_rxtitH4vX2iCQFx0fJUPGjUMdL2s69LXO6KM/s1600/una_and_lamb+017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmgUmL5yF4d1T1iDu5Kh7lwrE-9sFFEy_qcFbKVnn1USGk5jD7mFyZC76IwF5nUvH74qalCXWFn1j4NRAPCaD4WXZ3SYf9xLJiwF6C-_rxtitH4vX2iCQFx0fJUPGjUMdL2s69LXO6KM/s320/una_and_lamb+017.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Una and Todd, resting in the barn.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The lambing experience that Spring was what convinced me that "there oughta be someone" who could teach people about sheep and lambs and what to expect. As we used to say in the corporate world: Let no good idea go unpunished. But </span><b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #990000;">who knew</span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> that one of "the someones" would soon be me?!</span>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-3765392020451626712011-11-08T17:35:00.000-08:002011-11-08T17:35:30.097-08:00Counting Sheep, Part I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">It wasn't so long ago that I was afraid of most dogs, let alone <i>real</i> farm animals. I've never ridden a horse, and I got chased across a field by cows when my college roommate took me home for Thanksgiving in Vermont. So when my husband first brought up the subject of getting a flock of sheep to live and graze in our organic vineyard, I hemmed and hawed for a while.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqrf9UQBKV-8_M8fHSDbLriVssUKGBSz2kKL7rY809ZnA5f6x8aGTODYiNbm4ec4RRncMl9aXb_wS6AZd2r0EbKJqUHcKtRX38idGICqZomKBAawW4-PScKjd70BNe1-8m53C-0G95qE/s1600/CountingSheep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqrf9UQBKV-8_M8fHSDbLriVssUKGBSz2kKL7rY809ZnA5f6x8aGTODYiNbm4ec4RRncMl9aXb_wS6AZd2r0EbKJqUHcKtRX38idGICqZomKBAawW4-PScKjd70BNe1-8m53C-0G95qE/s320/CountingSheep.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr style="color: blue;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">From <i>The Wizard of Oz</i>: </span><br />
<div class="indent"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>Cowardly Lion:</b> I haven't slept in weeks. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>Tin Man:</b> Why don't you try counting sheep? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>Cowardly Lion:</b> That doesn't do any good — I'm afraid of 'em. </span></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">But he played "the green card" of how much better it would be for the vineyard and the environment than running the diesel tractor/mower and the manual, noisy, gas-powered weed whackers. And way better than chemical herbicide. Besides, he reasoned, the sheep would leave natural fertilizer too! So we visited <a href="http://www.canvasranch.com/babydoll_sheep.php" target="_blank">a nearby sheep ranch</a> and I not only became smitten with the small "Babydoll" sheep (aka Olde English Babydoll Southdowns), I also fell in love with the Maremma livestock guardian dogs that lived in the pasture with the sheep.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">In a month's time we found a nearby breeder with a small flock of babydolls that he was selling after he had expanded his own (human) family. And then we found a Maremma breeder who had imported a male and female from Italy a year earlier, and who had just had a litter of 7 adorable pups.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBiZkiXy2juSmtMKS3DtfJeAldb9WABl_e7LOlBciNdTfSuU7NSv4KUxMfT8uUP0x4YDgBdAhQv0sh-bGhVf6k-oFJai_4SCDbKDpv2B_y2JYWCOWeaA9jxd6K7ViSJhHGcdLeDAaL1MM/s1600/Farm+puppies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBiZkiXy2juSmtMKS3DtfJeAldb9WABl_e7LOlBciNdTfSuU7NSv4KUxMfT8uUP0x4YDgBdAhQv0sh-bGhVf6k-oFJai_4SCDbKDpv2B_y2JYWCOWeaA9jxd6K7ViSJhHGcdLeDAaL1MM/s320/Farm+puppies.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: blue;">I couldn't resist the Maremma puffballs... er, puppies.</span></span></span></td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fast-forward another month and we found ourselves with a flock of 7 sheep: 4 rams--two of which were 7 month old lambs, and 3 ewes--two of which were presumed to be pregnant and one a seven month old lamb. The owner offered us a package deal price, including delivery, that we couldn't refuse! We negotiated for the puppy to stay on the goat farm with his parents and siblings until he was a little older, and we were ready to bring him to his new home and job.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our neighbor graciously allowed us to temporarily put the sheep out in one of their fenced-in, but unused pastures. Good thing, as we had no place to put them up at the Vineyard! We'd go over several times a day to feed, check on, and marvel at the wooly beasts. <span style="color: #990000;">Who knew, when I said "I Do,"</span> that I would become a shepherd?! My friends and family's reactions spanned the range from amused to aghast.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg46QEnw7kSPHQXOwC9MXiGVtnA5YEzxmnyiiTKeG01_bua3ymW1BgC_hyfiGuGYk3-UeAz1fTR8PwDxGr3Mgt3wgO2XqG6fgSJSJd6WzLTVFJ1uJSd_e2KLHMMXO47VhJwOhR-GHmJ29w/s1600/pasture+critters+010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg46QEnw7kSPHQXOwC9MXiGVtnA5YEzxmnyiiTKeG01_bua3ymW1BgC_hyfiGuGYk3-UeAz1fTR8PwDxGr3Mgt3wgO2XqG6fgSJSJd6WzLTVFJ1uJSd_e2KLHMMXO47VhJwOhR-GHmJ29w/s320/pasture+critters+010.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: blue;">7 Babydoll sheep, grazing on The Jones' hillside</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Whereas just prior to the flock's arrival I was in a blissful state of "<i>un-</i>conscious incompetence," by the time the first week was over I was fairly overwhelmed with my certainty of "<i>conscious</i> incompetence." Three incidents fueled those feelings and also put me on my way to learning quickly under fire.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">1. A mountain lion was spotted cruising the fence where the Jones' goats grazed in the pasture just across the road from the sheep. John sketched a rough design for a "barn," and we dashed off to the lumber yard the day before Thanksgiving to get the materials to build said barn... or more accurately, shed. We built the 8x10 barn in an afternoon, the first thing I'd ever (helped) built. We got the sheep into the barn at dusk, wrapped our newly arrived electro-net fence around it, and went to bed exhausted.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgi4324C_fH6frSIJM2z_BIhDmHC5fRcEHyYqrkbDhU3cuMQLt7_8I4Q_dhW6B4iRIHTCHrkKe99xTsHQ01q6xIaWXlF3xTRuQn5UsTgqXhKrY6ByW-eayuoWDDbiyOBtTafJwNMAeaeY/s1600/barn+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgi4324C_fH6frSIJM2z_BIhDmHC5fRcEHyYqrkbDhU3cuMQLt7_8I4Q_dhW6B4iRIHTCHrkKe99xTsHQ01q6xIaWXlF3xTRuQn5UsTgqXhKrY6ByW-eayuoWDDbiyOBtTafJwNMAeaeY/s320/barn+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The barn in its first iteration. We herded and then secured<br />
all 7 sheep in the barn every night for a couple of months.</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">2. The alpha ram, a regal beast that we named Farley, butted me hard from behind <i>on</i> my behind while I was (obviously) not being attentive. I learned the critical shepherd lesson #1: Never turn your back on a ram.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">3. When we came out to feed and check up on the sheep one afternoon, we found the two adult rams, Farley and his son Tupper, butting the heck out of each other using their heads as "battering rams." It left no doubt in my mind where the term had originated. Over and over the two backed up, faced off, and then ran at each other, ramming their heads together until the two of them looked like their brains were spilling out of the tops of their heads. That night we did a RUSH order on two ram shields to block their forward vision--which prevented the rams from charging us or each other. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyvq0ivh9kNJF_FMB3DN6RGp8O04LqSB1k-0dY3Rcn2asbI-SZ9NTfBt1f22VyQ-wAGx5oWl15Q6oj_ALNQqv4RUXw6scwPhqaV8tRVeC3xVr2SimJMXpzpJ8yAp0wMX2EI9pr-9PxFag/s1600/farleyback_ride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyvq0ivh9kNJF_FMB3DN6RGp8O04LqSB1k-0dY3Rcn2asbI-SZ9NTfBt1f22VyQ-wAGx5oWl15Q6oj_ALNQqv4RUXw6scwPhqaV8tRVeC3xVr2SimJMXpzpJ8yAp0wMX2EI9pr-9PxFag/s320/farleyback_ride.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: blue;">Amateur hour; me trying to adjust the straps on Farley's shield</span></span></span></td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">The fact that Tupper quickly learned how to escape from his shield is a mere detail... But having Farley in his shield removed him from the duel. Tupper stopped initiating the charges when Farley couldn't play his role. Lesson learned: Rams are aggressive toward each other when ewes go into heat, even when the rams are father and son, and even when you assumed a first year ewe wouldn't go into heat! <span style="color: #990000;">Who knew</span>?! </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">What I did know is that I had a lot to learn and that there would be a lot of "oh sh*t" moments while I learned them. I also was starting to learn that I could tell these 7 sheep apart pretty quickly, and recognize behavioral traits and which sheep hung out with which other sheep out in the pasture. And so began my journey as a shepherd.</span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-85256596746315383062011-10-31T18:50:00.000-07:002011-10-31T18:50:39.119-07:00Monday, Monday<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The first day of the week has a bad rap, and for many years, I was right in there with all the Monday-phobes. For a while, Mondays were so disheartening that I began to dislike Sunday night too. And then, towards the beginning-of-the-end of my "professional" career, I didn't like Sunday at all, that's how much I was <i>not</i> looking forward to Monday.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">During two lengthy sabbatical leaves from work, my feelings toward the maligned Monday started to change. Mondays were good because everyone else had to go to work, and I could get the stuff done that I didn't want to waste my weekends on! And when I finally permanently "quit my day job," and moved up to the vineyard to live and farm full time, Monday took on a whole new and wonderful rhythm.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #990000;">Who knew, when I said I Do,</span> that I would eventually come around to love Mondays?</span></div><ul style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><li><span style="font-size: small;">On Monday, the newspaper (I read two every day) is thin, so I can read them cover-to-cover by about 8 am.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">The crossword puzzle, which I love to do every day, is easiest on Monday. After the challenging Sunday NYTimes version, I love feeling super-smart on Monday!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">I love that tourists love my home area in Wine Country, but I am hesitant to take long bike rides with all the weekend wine tasters (drinkers?) out on the road. Monday is blissfully calm for cyclists.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">The new work week has a positive connotation for me. I look forward to the week of vineyard work ahead and also documenting and crossing tasks off the list. </span></li>
</ul><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I think I'm making up now for the lost time... 1/7 of my working lifespan was kind of wasted, not even counting the lost hours of Sunday appreciation. I now practice the enlightening sports of "being present," living in the "Now," and non-resistance to "what is." And it's working! I'm happy, feel free, and yes, I love Mondays! <span style="color: #990000;">Who knew?</span></span></span>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-61559987249616950912011-10-24T10:04:00.000-07:002011-10-24T10:04:04.870-07:00Rock Star<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In my teens and twenties, I had a fantasy about being a rock star. Hearing Pat Benatar singing "Heartbreaker" or "Hit Me With Your Best Shot," Ann Wilson with "Magic Man," or Joan Jett's "I Love Rock & Roll" all made me break out my air guitar and start rockin' on the imagined stage! A few months after my wedding, when I was almost 30, I remember hearing Dave Edmunds singing "I Knew the Bride When She Used to Rock and Roll," and hoped that I would continue to be eager and enthusiastic about rocking out! </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixpyU6lLlMzvQPVgYHI8PK5VWIKWl-4GhfPi0hcmn9UGXW2_vNlwyCiq7V3QGctrmLzF2ReMTfWXBJxPExupg8KpJns6I6YJkp5u04pAE3uWpNmRHyz0JqPElFaHOvwASFqfjDLKugFoo/s1600/sc03a6dc27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixpyU6lLlMzvQPVgYHI8PK5VWIKWl-4GhfPi0hcmn9UGXW2_vNlwyCiq7V3QGctrmLzF2ReMTfWXBJxPExupg8KpJns6I6YJkp5u04pAE3uWpNmRHyz0JqPElFaHOvwASFqfjDLKugFoo/s320/sc03a6dc27.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">10 months into my marriage, I'm still rockin' ...<br />
This is with my NC gal pals, beach weekend, summer 1990</td></tr>
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the 20 years that I've been living in California, I've met many different kinds of "rock stars," from celebrity chefs and winemakers to famous technology innovators and world class athletes. I'm grateful that my definition of rock star has expanded, since I now recognize that my personal fantasy of being a rock star has just been realized. <b style="color: #990000;">Who knew</b>, when I said "I Do," that my chances for becoming a rock star were actually <i>increasing</i> instead of decreasing? </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This past Friday, we delivered the bounty from our eighth harvest, the 2011 crop of syrah and grenache, to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robert-Biale-Vineyards/169525726417414">Robert Biale Vineyards</a>. My sisters-in-law and I stationed ourselves on the winery crushpad, helping to sort the fruit as it traveled from the 1/2-ton bins to the crusher. Eponymous winery co-founder, Bob Biale, asked if John and I would come sign 4 cases of wine bottles for them. </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We took pens filled with metallic silver ink, and signed each bottle with a flourish. There were two cases each of Biale's 2007 and 2008 vintages of Kiger Family Vineyard Syrah. The winery will sell these bottles to their enthusiastic customers who really enjoy making a more personal connection with... you guessed it... the rock-star winegrowers! They're talking about doing a special event in the Spring when the 2008 bottles are actually released for sale, and John and I would come to the winery and pour our wine and talk to "The Biale Beloved."</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="color: #990000;">Who knew</b> that I would ever really get my chance to be (or at least feel like!) a rock star?! I better start thinking about my costume now.... Hmmm, wellies or sequins?</span></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5hAFJPE-ti2QFUtZynQBBihgzg5_TidGnijzzgmaB8jZDruU1P0o9vDp4sIUsjlCkqmP5HyJi8kpllp5AXDcOSBfmueSHx5G17VJsikpTWefvJddKfJL-dEsqU1R-QSgRrxCEbn2ZNP4/s1600/DSCN0133.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5hAFJPE-ti2QFUtZynQBBihgzg5_TidGnijzzgmaB8jZDruU1P0o9vDp4sIUsjlCkqmP5HyJi8kpllp5AXDcOSBfmueSHx5G17VJsikpTWefvJddKfJL-dEsqU1R-QSgRrxCEbn2ZNP4/s320/DSCN0133.jpg" width="234" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John and I pouring "Kiger wine" at a Biale event in 2010 </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEKoVbi-Hsi9sKN0DRhaOM6edNL9fFlCl7i2pO-A6TJs3fXLH6bhANL10ym6DksQxxJ3WFnTmpxS1zHv_T1NLbsglsbwqTxHeOyh_uJEd5Zxma8sZyM3b9BITam7WvJ3S6XTKsWZy-8tU/s1600/DSCF4587.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEKoVbi-Hsi9sKN0DRhaOM6edNL9fFlCl7i2pO-A6TJs3fXLH6bhANL10ym6DksQxxJ3WFnTmpxS1zHv_T1NLbsglsbwqTxHeOyh_uJEd5Zxma8sZyM3b9BITam7WvJ3S6XTKsWZy-8tU/s320/DSCF4587.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the winery in 2010 with the barrels of not-yet-bottled Kiger 2008 Syrah</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-16281192394414166452011-10-17T09:30:00.000-07:002011-10-17T09:30:17.567-07:00<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">For most of my working/corporate life, I maintained two distinctly separate wardrobes: one side of the closet for work clothes, one side for play. There was little-to-no interchangeability between them. And then there were the shoes... I won't claim to have been competing with Imelda Marcos, or even Sara (!), but I did love shoes and had many pairs, each in its own box, consisting mainly of "pumps" of every color and heel height for work. Today, I still maintain two distinctly separate sets of clothes: one set that is presentable in public, and the other set for working in the vineyard, garden, or with the animals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My work clothes are what I tend to reach for first in the morning, even for times like right now while I'm "up in my office, working" on my iMac. There are t-shirts of every color, long sleeved and short, including many with old corporate logos and project slogans. Hand-me-down t-shirts from old work-friends. Jeans that have frayed and old chinos that I just don't want to wear "out" anymore make their way to my work-clothes pile. But the shoes... that's the theme for this posting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Out in the garage, in the single-car bay that houses much of our farm equipment and Wally (our John Deere Gator), is a rack of shoes. They are mostly mine, a few of John's, and there are even a few stray pairs left by various in-laws! There are a few pairs of my work boots, a few pairs of old sneakers and clogs, old flip flops, and then there are my Wellies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b style="color: #990000;">Who knew</b>, when I said "I do," that my favorite pair of shoes would be my blue Lands' End Wellie boots? I slip them on at least twice a day, all year long. With or without socks, in shorts or long pants, and occasionally even while wearing a skirt.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtfGNWv20M1mmj8RzIIvK-j5K8ZVdyo3adEguTKpfeKeYLAXI2CPmbfBSvHEEdz2hAbWeiagazdRZoy2grZ0cNLGoZn0eYSaDdLKUrNuYPlC5sTOPp-c5_g4KJd04AjANQ8ZmoSmkpPI/s1600/DSCF4602.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtfGNWv20M1mmj8RzIIvK-j5K8ZVdyo3adEguTKpfeKeYLAXI2CPmbfBSvHEEdz2hAbWeiagazdRZoy2grZ0cNLGoZn0eYSaDdLKUrNuYPlC5sTOPp-c5_g4KJd04AjANQ8ZmoSmkpPI/s320/DSCF4602.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Jackie, our (now deceased) black ram lamb. Jeans tucked into Wellies.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">They are comfortable, even for hours at a time. My feet stay reasonably warm,
but don't overheat. My feet easily slip in and out of them, they have good traction, <i>and</i> they keep
my feet dry. I even keep an extra pair around for visitors who volunteer to work,
including my parents. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom, in my spare pair, preparing the wine bottles</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad, wearing <i>my</i> Wellies in the vineyard</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My Wellies are the outdoor version of my favorite comfy slippers</span><span style="font-size: small;">. <b style="color: #990000;">Who knew</b> how far from my shoe-crazy roots I would fall? Or maybe, in a more enlightened way of thinking, I could ask <b style="color: #990000;">who knew</b> how far I would <i>progress</i>? And <b><span style="color: #990000;">who knew</span></b> that I would still feel just as attractive and engaging in my Wellies as in my high heels?! (And I think John agrees :-)</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toasting our 22nd wedding anniversary last week just after <br />we finished crushing and pressing the grapes for the 2011 Rosé.<br /></td></tr>
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<br />Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-363852673373489571.post-91068324414804186782011-10-10T15:34:00.000-07:002011-10-10T15:47:23.859-07:00I was crawling around on all fours the other day, halfway between the vegetable garden and the vineyard, happily pulling weeds. The ground was softened from the first rain of the season the day before, allowing me to easily pull out the entire weed and its roots. I was blowing away stray strands of hair from my ponytail and humming a tune that was stuck in my head. Even inside the work gloves, my hands were dirty.<br />
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Not for the first time, a thought occurred to me: <b><span style="color: #741b47;">Who knew</span></b> that I would be so content crawling around in the dirt, ridding my world of these evil weeds? Who could have guessed that I even could be? I was smiling, giggling to myself, and imagining myself saying these things out loud.<br />
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</b></div><b><span style="color: #741b47;">Who knew</span></b>, when I said "I do," that I would someday choose to spend hours systematically eliminating weeds one-by-one with my own formerly manicured hands? On my own land, in my own vineyard, and in the dreamscape that I live in with my husband and menagerie. It all started as his idea, his passions, and his study and inspiration more than 14 years ago. I was a willing participant, but I never imagined what life would be like to live on a farm or a ranch or a vineyard, let alone <i>work</i> on a farm or ranch or vineyard, let alone MY OWN farm/ranch/vineyard! Yet here I am, six years after quitting my "day job," blossoming as both a person and a farmer/rancher/winegrower.<br />
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The number of "<b style="color: #741b47;">who knew</b>" items on my list has been growing by the day and week, and I think a few out there might enjoy following along. My mother-in-law has been telling me for a while that I ought to write a book, but that's only because she doesn't yet know what a blog is. <br />
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So here it is, my first post: <b style="color: #741b47;">Who knew</b>, when I said "I do," that I'd happily spend hours pulling weeds? I know it's an illusion to think even for a moment that I can actually control the weed population in my organic vineyard and surrounding land. But the satisfaction of pulling a nasty weed and all its nasty, neighboring spawn was very real. It was a tangible effort, satisfying the analytical and quantitative parts of my brain. It was tactile, and I have the callouses to prove it! The smell of the moist earth, the nearby lavender, and the recently-spread wood mulch were delicious. And the resulting "tidiness" brought me joy, even if it is just a temporary visual state. And at least all of the new weeds will be from old seeds, making it that much easier to remove them before they make any new seeds.<br />
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I relish the chance to share my tales, life lived by me: a farmer, a farmer's wife, and a woman learning and practicing to truly love "what is."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTneIJhOHWlVGvHt16UneqN-9jDZj94qDdc6cCHgx7Om6mlTfqDQJQDFmvKZBdtS0S1ud4ECzgLQpDiiuS3DQBOdH0DFs4F9jbXCH-Tm_Ti3Tkq7Lw5D-fxbJlpNrI7GtgSrQ_e49_d0/s1600/DSCN1032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTneIJhOHWlVGvHt16UneqN-9jDZj94qDdc6cCHgx7Om6mlTfqDQJQDFmvKZBdtS0S1ud4ECzgLQpDiiuS3DQBOdH0DFs4F9jbXCH-Tm_Ti3Tkq7Lw5D-fxbJlpNrI7GtgSrQ_e49_d0/s320/DSCN1032.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Debhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01159979979276553074noreply@blogger.com8